Dark My Light
by Blodeuedd
Summary: The childhood of Dr. Jonathan Crane was a dark one, marked by cruelty, pain, and loss. What happens when the arrival of a new intern at Arkham Asylum revives memories of what he's sought to forget? A bizarre account of unnatural love and inevitable ruin.
1. When I'm alone

"_When I'm alone"—_the words tripped off his tongue

As if to be alone were nothing strange.

"_When I was young," _he said; _"when I was young…."_

-from _Alone_, by Siegfried Sassoon

…

The city had given him a decaying house that sprawled like a dead beast on the corner of a street near the school. A house with peeling paint and a sickly yard infested with weeds. A sun-bleached roof that wept each time it rained.

His classmates saw the house every day as their school bus rolled by, their noses pressed white to the dirty windows in rabid curiosity. They knew the scarecrow-boy lived there, and would watch the house slide past with a fascination made keener by their spite.

The city had given him a skinny mother who coughed too much and listened to opera on a battered old radio that gathered dust by the lemon-scented sink. He thought of her as a willow tree, always sagging, sighing, ailing. On some days, she would begin tending to the bloody noses and cut lips before she forgot what she was doing and absently draw away to half-complete some new task, leaving him sitting in the kitchen with a wad of bloody tissues and tears in his eyes.

And the city had given him his father. A father who didn't look like his son and wasn't really a father at all, just a man. A stranger who couldn't hold a job for more than a week at a time. Every day, the stranger would leave at six in the morning and return at five in the evening. The front door would open and close, and then the stranger would sit in a battered chair in their living room. He'd light a cigarette and stare vacantly out the window, as if something of his were missing.

Gotham had never been kind to him. But she could be cruel. Oh, yes, she could be cruel.

And she was clearly feeling spiteful today.

Eleven bruises and five scrapes on his knees and elbows. His preadolescent attackers had been neither coordinated nor inescapable. But they were extraordinarily familiar with the artless procedure of finding a deserted corner of the schoolyard where _the freak_ could be antagonized on a daily basis.

When the last bell rang, he tried to slip away unseen, heady euphoria washing over him as he realized he was upon the threshold. Almost gone. But his hated, unnatural height quickly betrayed him, try as he might to disappear in his usual slouch.

The crunch and creaking scrape of their kittenishly small shoes echoed his own long, ungainly strides. They hadn't forgotten him. They were only a few bold steps behind.

He chewed a chapped lip, clutching his books closer to himself, as if he didn't know whether to protect their precious contents with his life or use them as his shield. The world before him was seen shattered through the broken lenses of a pair of nearly useless old glasses.

Goading whispers began once the classroom was behind them.

"Look at his clothes. They're all ragged and old 'cause his mommy doesn't love him."

"—doesn't love him because he's a nasty old scarecrow."

"_Scarecrow!_" Shrieks of laughter met the familiar nickname, flung like a dagger at his retreating, stooped form. He hung his head even lower, wanting to disappear.

"He can't 'ford new clothes anyways. The Cranes are poor. Don't have a penny. His daddy doesn't work."

"My mommy says that's not his real daddy. His real daddy's gone or dead or something."

"He's had those shoes since kindergarten. See his old socks sticking out the back?"

Giggles bubbled through the air. A boldly-thrown rock hit one of the protruding shoulder blades. He flinched in momentary pain, but pushed his slipping glasses further up the bridge of his nose and trudged on. He'd long since become accustomed to the routine, the cruelty, the unrelenting hate.

Her classroom was only a few dozen steps away. _Don't let anything happen. Please don't let anything happen._ He would die of shame to have her see him with fresh wounds.

"He lied when we wrote our essays about summer. Didn't go nowhere. Didn't make friends. Lying skeleton-boy."

"He lied about it 'cause nobody likes him, stupid."

"Nobody. Stupid know-it-all scarecrow."

"—so skinny 'cause he doesn't have money for lunch."

"Skinny like an ugly bag of _bones_."

Tears stung his eyes, and he tried frantically to wipe them away with the bony palm of a hand. Too late.

"Look! He's _crying!_" More laughter, as if his misfortunes were a cartoon carefully tailored for their amusement.

The classroom wasn't far now; the door was open and he could see inside.

He drew a heady final breath, as if about to submerge himself in water, and then ran towards the doorway, nearly tripping over his feet, disappearing into the warm, musty safety of the classroom.

"The Cranes are the poorest family in Gotham."

"In the _world!_"

That last barb was pitched just as _she_ emerged in the doorway, arms folded.

Her gaze neither admonished nor accused the children. But they were struck dumb nonetheless by the immutably sobering presence of an adult. His once-vindictive classmates dispersed like a flock of birds, skipping homewards. Their merry chatter echoed like the sound of light rain, puddling and dripping behind them. Their malice was forgotten until tomorrow; now, there was homework to be done and cookies to be eaten and toys to be had.

Amy Lancaster watched them go, shaking her head before turning to look at the huddled mass of knobby elbows and knees behind her.

"How was your day, Jonathan?" She asked quietly, voice like the warm yellow heart of a rose. Her milk-white arms dropped gently to her sides, like wings.

Amy was slight and thin, like him, but as short for her age as he was tall for his. Even on the odd day when she wore heels, she could barely look over Jonathan's head.

She wasn't terribly pretty, with wide, dollish eyes the color of weak brown tea and messy yellow hair always falling in wisps from its weary knot. Her clothes were old, and often too big for her skinny frame, but beautiful.

Hearing her speak, he uncoiled himself from his customary slump and straightened, a turtle emerging from his shell.

"Not very good," he mumbled honestly, quiet and ashen-soft, carefully setting his books on the nearest desk and arranging them so that their spines lined up in a perfect stack. He could make _them_ perfect, if nothing else. He could leave the books alone here and not worry. No one would come to rip out pages or write mean words on the covers when his back was turned.

Amy smiled, as if he'd told her a subtle joke. Unlovely as she was, she reminded him of the sun. "Mine wasn't very nice, either." Her doelike gaze fell on the fastidiously aligned books.

"What are you reading now?"

"About birds. And that big one—the green one—is about—"

"Sociology?" She exclaimed aloud in surprise as she read the title.

The quiet boy nodded. "Got it from the library."

He carefully slid the book out from the neat pile, offering it to her, waiting for her approval. Eyes soft, she reached for the fat volume. The sleeve of her faded cardigan sweater pulled back, revealing a macabre bracelet of dark indigo bruises.

His eyes fixed on the marks immediately, emotionless but nonetheless pinioned to the spot.

Amy noticed. Suddenly, his teacher seemed frail, sad, all-delicate as a newborn bird. "Oh. That's—oh, well," she stammered lightly, "it's—nothing, nothing. An accident. He—just an accident, that's all."

She yanked the treacherous sleeve back down over her fragile wrist and turned away, glancing desperately over at her desk. But his impression of her weakness lingered like a stain.

"I—I have to grade some tests today, but you can erase the board if you'd like. You know I can't reach." A forced, quick smile was produced solely for him before she sat.

Accepting the task with silent sobriety, he walked to the chalkboard. He paused to adjust his perpetually sliding glasses, then set to work.

Here, his long arms and legs were an advantage, not another reason to trip and fall and be teased; he didn't have to stretch and strain to reach the top of the board like the other children did.

"Did you at least have fun in my science class today?"

He nodded gravely, looking sideways at her with those sad but oddly serene blue lavender eyes.

Once he'd finished cleaning the board, he gathered his books and made a mute departure.

Despite the silence, Amy Lancaster knew he was grateful. The thanks lingered like warm honey in the air.

The road home was now empty of other students, and it was safe.

…

One day not long after, the principal came to visit Amy. She was shelving books with Jonathan when the balding, middle-aged man entered.

A single look into his stern, lined face made her tuck some loose strands of hair behind her ear and whisper, "Perhaps you'd better go outside for a moment, Jonathan."

Unquestioning, the lanky child obeyed. He walked out to the playground, a bleak place cooked by the yellowish afternoon light, one ear turned toward the voices that carried over the warm, cracked asphalt.

"—parents have been calling me. Saying that their children have mentioned how you've been regularly allowing Jonathan Crane into your classroom after school," the principal was saying. His nervous, pale eyes roved the walls, the windows, the chalkboard. "They are somewhat concerned about the, ah, nature of your relationship. And since this has been brought to my attention, so am I." He shifted his weight nervously in the silence, tugging at the buttons on his jacket.

"Mr. Orrick, I see what is being implied here and I can assure you the 'relationship' is purely platonic," Amy replied coldly. She was the shorter of the two, but she'd always known how to make herself seem taller in a pinch. "The boy is _incredibly_ bright. He could attend any college in the nation in—in just three or four years. His work in this science class is—"

"Ms. Lancaster." He raised a cautioning hand, and she reluctantly fell silent. "I'm not looking for an evaluation. I'm here for answers. I understand that you are fairly new to the field of education. As one educator to another, I advise you to refrain from favoring students, especially to such a questionable degree. Setting one of our children so far above the rest, even in a 'platonic' manner, is entirely unacceptable. The only reason that the Depression hasn't brought about the closure of West Gotham Elementary already is because of our untarnished reputation—"

Now it was Amy's turn to cut the principal off. She forgot her fear and the hidden circles of bruises on her arms and throat; her voice became as firm and cold as December ice. Jonathan listened with an empty heart.

"'_Questionable?_' Protecting a student from his classmates is _questionable?_ Jonathan's peers fear his intelligence, and the only way they feel they can retaliate is to use physical and verbal violence. Is it wrong—is it 'questionable' for me to shelter him from their cruelty?"

They _feared_ him?

"He is a prodigy, Mr. Orrick. A prodigy whose ideas and imagination are being cowed into silence by the disdain of his class. Who is there to show him that it's acceptable to be a thinker? To tell him that, in time, he is going to stand head and shoulders above these other children?"

"I'm sure he could manage to make the innovative discovery on his own someday, Ms. Lancaster." The principal's voice made it clear that he was already bored with the conversation. It sounded as if he were examining the pattern on a rug.

Amy heaved a rough, husky sigh, one slim hand going to massage her temple as she looked bravely up at her employer, eyes liquid but fierce.

"Mr. Orrick, one cannot exorcise his own demons alone. I am going to help this child. He will not be a martyr in the name of conformity just because I thought 'he could manage.'" Her lips pinched together, white. "_I am going to help him._"

The man shook his head, despairing easily. "Very well. But if you do anything—_anything_—to call this establishment's respectability into question during all this fuss, I will—" His voice trailed off into a murmur too low for Jonathan to hear.

When he left the room, he didn't even look at Jonathan as he passed.

Amy stood alone in the classroom for a moment, staring at the place where the principal had stood. Her fists were still and white-knuckled at her sides.

"Jonathan, you can come back in now," she said when he crept like a ghost to the doorway. Her limpid eyes didn't move, but he knew she saw him.

"Should I go home now?" He asked, staring at his feet. His face burned to think that she had caught him listening.

"You can if that's what you want."

"My mom might be worried." Or she might just be listening to another performance of _Tosca_ on the radio, sobbing into a dishrag as the smell of his father's tobacco and misery filled the house.

"Can you wait? Just a moment?" Her voice was soft and forlorn, as if she were praying.

Startled, he hesitated. She came to where he stood. Knelt in a slow flurry of pastel-candy skirts, like a dancer. She gripped his shoulders, smelling of chalk and cinnamon, like she always did.

"Listen to me," his teacher said hoarsely, young eyes suddenly too sad to be young anymore. "Please listen, Jonathan. No matter what they will say, you are the most gifted person I know.

"Don't be afraid. Don't _ever_ be afraid. I know you're afraid now. I—I know you're afraid every day when you come to school. But don't fear your wisdom, just because they tell you to. And they will. They'll tell you to condemn what you are because they're jealous and scared that you'll be better than them. Use your intelligence and you will go farther than any of them. Use your mind and you will win. Promise, Jonathan. Promise me you will."

She was trembling, and tears now coursed silently down her face. Her fingers on his bony shoulders were rigid, shaking, cold. But in that instant she seemed stronger, braver, lovelier than anyone he had ever known.

"I promise."

The indescribable, angelic something in her which had been drawn so taut before relaxed. Her grasp loosed and lifted, but the memory of it remained.

When she opened her eyes again, and rose to her feet, she was the same Ms. Lancaster. Just a small, tired teacher with fraying ideals at the end of a day.

"Well," she said briskly, a summery smile appearing on her face, "You'd best get along home before it starts getting dark."

…

The day that the city took Amy Lancaster away was a balmy and warm one, in late spring. Just before school got out. The weather of the week before had been beautiful; through the grime and smoke, even the dim stars seemed brighter.

His classmates were surprisingly merciful that day, too preoccupied with the lakes they would visit and the friends they would see over vacation to bother him much. But despite the lack of childish animosity or threat of bodily harm, he went to her classroom out of sheer, timid adoration.

"It's a good thing you came," she said as she saw his angular shadow in the doorway, "I have a bunch of things I need to pack up in my car. Can you help?"

He could. The days were getting longer, and the dull nightmare which he called home would wait. Mother would be setting the table with a snaillike lethargy, her arms pale and long and slow; the man would be sitting in his worn chair, leaden-eyed. The warm evening breeze would be rasping through the shattered front window that had never been repaired.

They carried box after box to her old car. Amy explained optical illusions and kinds of stars and the speed of light. He listened hungrily, asking questions only when he was certain that he would not interrupt her sweeping stories. She told him that he should take chemistry and biology in high school, but to avoid physics.

"Chemistry and biology add flavor to the mystery, but physics ruins it completely," she said.

"I want to study people," he told her warily, after a happy lull in the conversation, "I want to learn how minds work."

"An excellent idea," she remarked approvingly. A warm, buttery taste rose in him when he saw—saw in the curve of her smile and the lightness of her eyes—that she truly thought it was.

It happened as they were working together to carry a huge globe towards the waiting car trunk.

Amy stopped walking suddenly, her eyes fastened on a place he couldn't see over the curve of the giant world.

"Oh," she breathed softly. It was a ghostly, terrible sound, like the last breath from her body. Jonathan halted, the heaviness of the globe forgotten.

He heard a car pull up by the school and screech to an awful halt, motor still running. Amy set down the globe as someone shouted her name in a harsh, scraping-iron voice. Her face became white and beautiful.

And afraid.

"Run," she hissed at him, "_Run! _Don't come back."

Disappearing had always been easy. Loping into the shadows, he clambered over the nearby bushes and crouched behind them, frozen as the premeditated scene laid itself out before him.

Now he could see the source of her shock: a burly man getting out of a black convertible, roaring vicious words and moving towards her with an unsmiling, predatory speed. Jonathan remembered the bruises and shuddered, huddling low and wary in the bushes.

She took a step back as the man advanced, one hand raised across as if to defend. But the fingers were wilted, without hope.

"Ian…"

"Why'd you leave me?" The man bellowed, gripping Amy by her pale throat, "_Why'd you leave?_"

Jonathan wanted to scream, to run, but he remembered what she had said. He would stay. She'd be all right. She would.

After all, she wouldn't have told him to stay where he was if she couldn't save herself.

Motionless, he watched as the man hit Amy again and again, shouting about broken promises and old fights and how worthless she was. Amy was quiet beneath his hands, eyes downcast, almost in reverence.

His heart thrashed about in his ribs like a living thing trapped. This was worse than his classmates, worse than his father's silence and his mother's indifference. This was evil. How had gentle, pretty Ms. Lancaster met this inhuman—_thing?_

She had finally found her voice and was screaming, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry," when the man pulled out a knife.

Jonathan's knees buckled in raw shock and he had to grip the soggy dark earth for support. His stupid eyes were wide and horrified and seeing what he didn't want to see. The man gripped Amy's arm with his free hand, hauling her fiercely to her feet. She seemed drugged and limp now, resigned to the fate she knew would come.

In the knife went, and out, and in again, and Amy bled. She bled and died where the knife touched her heart.

The sun went away. But she shouldn't have. If what she had said only minutes ago about the speed of light and dying stars were true, he should still have seen her shine in the dark.

His breathing became jagged. His pulse thrummed angrily in his ears, fighting to shepherd sluggish, chilled blood through contracting veins. But his skin was cold and drawn tight over his bones.

The man straightened. He was nonchalantly looking at the crumpled body before him as he adjusted his dark jacket, running fingers through lank hair. So calm, as if he were about to say goodbye after a visit. He tossed the bleeding knife aside with a casual brutality that snapped the blade in two, then sped off in the black car that roared and bucked like a monster.

Tears came and came and didn't end. Somehow, Jonathan crawled home, keening softly like a creature in mourning, not looking back once. Afraid of what he would see if he did.

This was the only place that was safe for him now, terrible as it was, terrible and unfamiliar. He could hear an aria from _The Marriage of Figaro_ winding its way towards the garish, pink-lit sky from the kitchen. It was joyful and made the house into something almost beautiful.

The city's laughter echoed, mocking and vindictive, in his ears.

_I gave you something wonderful_, she said with a careless toss of her cement-and-steel head, _I gave you something wonderful and now I've taken it back. How do you feel about that, honey? _

The bile rose in his throat, strong enough to make him cringe and squirm and tremble as if feverish. Surrounding himself in an eerie silence, he stole to his room without dinner and lay flat on the dusty rug. Dead, staring up at the stained and cracked ceiling. Everything in him felt dirty with hate, like poison.

"_I hate you_," he said through clenched young teeth, with all the single-minded vehemence a child can muster, hands turning into fists and then into hands again. "I hate you, I hate you, I hate you, _I hate you_…"

In his mind, the city blackened, crumbled, perished a thousand times.

His mother, humming absently, forgot to call her son to the table for dinner. Disappearing had always been easy for him.

At exactly seven o'clock, he could hear the opera stop and the sound of the evening news begin to seep through his bedroom door.

A young science teacher, one Ms. Amy Lancaster, had been brutally stabbed to death in front of the elementary school where she worked. The murderer was presumed to be a former boyfriend, Ian Worth, who was also reputedly a member of one of the more violent gangs that lurked in Gotham's dark streets. Worth hadn't been apprehended yet, but the police force remained optimistic.

Jonathan knew Gotham was being cruel to him. He could smell the ridicule and mirth in the sweet, softening spring air.

That night, he promised himself that, when he was older and stronger and braver, he would be cruel back.

* * *

Author's Note

In a world beleaguered by AIDS, poverty, terrorism, and war, the last thing we need is another lovesick homage to Dr. Jonathan Crane à la Cillian Murphy. However, resisting the impulse to write such a tale has proved too vexing for me. So here's my two cents in this rapidly expanding genre; I hope you find the divine patience within yourselves to read and maybe even enjoy it, if at all possible.

Reviews, especially those featuring constructive criticism, are welcome.

Because I've only been running on what information I can glean from the newer Batman comics, books, and websites (regrettably, I wasn't around when Scarecrow first appeared in _World's Finest #3_), this first chapter is admittedly quite AU—everyone and everything besides Jonathan Crane himself are my characters and situations (with the exception of the Depression that is mentioned at one point—that, as we all know, is a concept derived from _Batman Begins_). While I can't make any changes to the text due to the restrictions generated by my plot, I'd love to hear whatever interesting details or snippets of information you may have to offer alongside your feedback.

Stay tuned,

Blodeuedd


	2. This is a girl

this is a girl who died in her mind

with a warm thick scream

and a keen cold groan

while the gadgets purred

and the gangsters dined

-from _this is a rubbish of human rind_ by e.e. cummings

…

They sat opposite each other in the silent office. The fine dark wood of the table between them was cut across by slashes of sunlight and shadow that trailed from the half-drawn blinds of a nearby window. Both of them were motionless, expressionless, as if they had forgotten what their faces were for.

He was the first to break the static tableau. Looking down, he regarded the sheaf of paper before him with a delicate but tangible apathy, then steepled his frail-boned fingers across the meticulously typed ranks of credentials and waited.

Tip of her tongue clenched between her teeth behind a close-lipped smile, she concentrated on the steady ticking of the clock on the desk. Every nerve of her seemed inebriated by fear, freakishly attuned to every oblivious passing second.

He cleared his throat with the same careful delicacy with which he'd looked at the portfolio. It was a quiet, almost effeminate sound, but her heart nearly stopped regardless. "Ms. Crandell, perhaps I was mistaken in assuming this question would be a straightforward one requiring a simple answer. If so—"

"I—I believe that my perseverance is my best quality," she blurted, probably loud enough for everyone on the block to hear. She wouldn't tingle with humiliation over her audacity until later. "I'll be presented with a problem, and I will work until I either have the means to find a solution or the solution itself."

His smile was vacant, dry. She could almost hear the despairing sobs of her professors. _Nice one, idiot._

"Perseverance," he repeated musingly, maliciously, after another excruciating lull. "Indeed."

Smug little bastard. She wanted to punch him. All gawky elbows and knees as he seemed to be, it was doubtful he'd put up much of a fight, even for a coltish girl like her. There was a half-grown look about him that suggested he was younger and physically weaker than he'd like others to know.

It had been that self-conscious but irrefutable youth that had startled her first when she'd walked in the door, expecting a stuffy, graying doctor. Definitely an intern, she'd decided immediately, even though his eyes seemed old. A listless intern with a tape recorder secreted away in his pocket, filling in for a preoccupied doctor who was on call at the Asylum. Hell, he looked young enough to be a fellow student. Maybe even a close relative of her irresistibly geeky, tongue-tied senior prom date from six years ago.

But the resemblance to Rufus Church was merely superficial at best; it didn't look like this man had a tendency to spill punch or make sporadic references to obscure science fiction films. In fact, judging by his flat expression, he probably had every intention of barring her from any opportunity of getting the job. The fierce blue gaze was cold, frozen behind a pair of steely glasses. The bizarrely statuesque features were aloof.

Yes, he'd clearly established himself as her enemy for the moment.

"What experience—if any" amusement escaped his tight control for an instant, disappearing before she could truly register the disclosure "—do you have to qualify for this position?"

"Well—as I've said, my primary goal is a career in psychiatry. My studies of the last seven years reflect that desire. While in high school, I studied psychology and sociology over the summers of my junior and senior year at the local college. As a student at Dartmouth College, I took courses in general and organic chemistry, physics, biology, and mathematics. I also studied social and psychological sciences and psychobiology. Most recently, I worked for a year as a guidance counselor at a New Hampshire remedial school for teenagers. Before I attend medical school next year, I plan to complete another year of internship, whether here or elsewhere, to further qualify myself for the profession."

The urge to cough scornfully at her own relentless self-promotion prickled in her throat, but she managed to fend it off without embarrassment.

"Arkham Asylum is a far cry from a high school in New Hampshire, you must realize." She could practically smell the disdain in his lazy, cutting words.

"I am quite aware of the contrast," she assured him with angelic reserve. In her mind, her cold metal chair made a resounding connection with his head. Again. And again.

Between two fleeting ticks of the clock, he smiled at her.

Really smiled, flashing even white teeth for the briefest of instants. He seemed to have a habit of letting an emotion brush the surface for a second, then suppressing it again, and this was the first time she'd really noticed the short-lived manifestation. Though there was something guarded and asymmetric about the smile, she realized what it was and softened momentarily, unthinkingly, in return. Maybe she wasn't doing as abysmally as she had originally thought.

Then again, maybe he was just imagining something similar to her own recent, violent thought. Either way, the moment was soon lost, vanished in human suspicion and one merciless sweep of the clock's second hand.

He glanced down at his interlocked fingers, as if the next question were written on his knuckles. "How did you find out about this opportunity?"

She paused before speaking, waiting for that rare smile to reappear, to mirror her own.

It didn't.

Suddenly ashamed, she hurried to continue, ruing her credulity. "A-actually, Mike Laramie told me to apply when he heard I was out of school and looking for a pre-med school internship. You might know him. 'Dr. Laramie?'"

He nodded without warmth, eyes glancing at a spot just over her shoulder, as if speaking to the man she'd mentioned. "Yes. I know Dr. Laramie. A very bright man." The compliment sounded forced, almost puked.

She returned the nod vaguely, the knots in her belly loosening in instinctive sympathy. She could easily see Mike picking on this tall, lean knife-blade of a young man. Alternately choosing to either cosset or persecute an underdog had always been one of his odder quirks. She'd been lucky, strange as it seemed now, to have been selected for the former.

"And finally, Ms. Crandell, I must add a question of my own. Given the position you are applying for, you will understand." He leaned forward slightly, reminding her of a starved crow.

"I-I'm sure I will," she forced out, feeling her insides buck and heave with mistrust. _What was he up to?_ She soon got her answer.

"What are your thoughts on the nature of evil and its place in the human psyche?"

This was definitely not the question of some favor-currying intern. It had a sound of experience, of calculation, an edge that made her heart thud as if in its last throes.

"Well," she began shakily, grasping frenetically for words in the expectant stillness, "We're all told as children that there's good in everyone. And—I suppose there is some truth to that. I believe ethics and conscience are pivotal factors in defining humanity. To, um, lose one's ethics, to lose one's conscience, is to give up a part of one's humanity. Which leads me to my point: that—what I just said isn't true in the least." Oh God, she was babbling like an idiot. "The human mind contains various elements, some of which may deviate in varying degrees from what _we_ consider 'proper.' We are all—um, to use your word—evil, in some way."_ And you graduated from the Big Green last June, you say?_

The eyes behind the odd-rimmed glasses were implacable. "I see." He sat back in his seat, already bored with her.

"No, no," she said quietly, wanting to bury herself alive as she made the admission she knew she had to make. "That can't be it. I—I'm sorry. I don't know; I truthfully can't answer the question."

She realized that she was gripping the arms of her chair with a painful white rigidity, and did her best to relax.

Well, she had done it; she had just successfully and completely blown the interview. Somehow, she remembered to breathe. A multitude of eloquent, intelligent alternatives to her ungainly response were welling up in her head, but it was a little late now.

Remembering that she was still in the taciturn office, she straightened as best she could and tried to smile. The expression felt like a rigid grimace of pain. "Thank you."

"Thank you, Ms. Crandell. We will contact you in about a week or so. Have a nice afternoon."

He stood to his feet as she made a hasty exit, all six gangling feet of him. Darcy couldn't even think of a witty prod at the belated arrival of his manners.

…

Sheila was waiting for her outside the office building, car droning patiently as she lazily paged through an old paperback.

"How'd it go?" She asked out the open window, tossing the book into the backseat as the other woman hurried to clamber into the passenger seat.

"Terrible," Darcy answered at once, fumbling with the seatbelt, fingers blunted and clumsy with frustration.

"Need to talk about it?"

The second response was as immediate and pained as the first. "Hell no."

"_Fine_," Sheila murmured long-sufferingly as she pulled out onto the street. "Want to go get a drink and a bite to take your mind off it, or should I drop you off at your place?"

"The apartment, please. I'll just be miserable; don't punish yourself."

"Believe me, I don't intend to. You can gripe like a woman twice your age when you're in the mood. And if—" The car hit an unseen pothole, and Sheila swore, forgetting her light, wry mood. "Why can't they clean this damn city up?"

Darcy looked out at the shapes that moved in the gathering autumn twilight. Sheila's crescendo of a tirade faded in her ears and she looked at dirty streets and skies.

Try as she might to direct its attention elsewhere, her feverish mind kept returning to her interviewer. He'd been nothing but the fount of her anxiety and confusion from the minute he'd initiated the interview, with neither introduction nor compassion.

Everything about him had seemed frigid, mechanical, inhuman. As precise and chill as the clock that had sat not far from his right hand. But every time she would begin to settle into his icy cadence, there had been a slight arrhythmic flutter of life in him. A lash of sophisticated sarcasm. A glimmer of a smirk in that lulling voice. A wary glint in his blue eyes like the beady gleam of an untamed bird's.

And the smile. The thought of his greatest open display of humanity should have brought her only relief, relief that the man wasn't the magically preserved cadaver he seemed. But instead the memory only stirred up an unsettled bewilderment. The smile was one of the most telling expressions in a human being's grasp. She'd done a study on it in her third year at Dartmouth. The arch of a brow, a falsity in the eyes, a flush in the cheek—all of these small nuances were nothing on their own. But when accompanied by a smile, they could speak volumes about the person who wore them.

His smile had been like a closed, unmarked door.

"—and don't even get me started on that madhouse you want to work for. That nice little business office the interview was held at isn't even the beginning. _Arkham_ proper is in the Narrows, Darce. Have you seen the Asylum yet since you got back? Or heard anything? The patients… God, you'd have to be insane yourself to work there. –You listening?"

"Thanks," Darcy put in vacantly.

"You're very welcome. What makes you want to work there?"

"I'm curious."

"About what? How many sizes straitjackets come in? I'm sure you could find out…"

"No." She leaned her head against the chilling glass of the car window as gray buildings slid past, thinking. "The criminally insane are—different."

"Damn right they are."

"You know what I mean. They're like us, they're _people_. But they're dissimilar at the same time. They've made decisions we haven't. Decisions we're too—too scared to make or even think about. They've been through things we can't begin to understand."

Sheila rolled her eyes. "Always the hero, Darce." Her amusement came to a stop when she saw a homeless man huddled with a slat-ribbed dog under a ragged blanket on the corner as they made a left turn.

"Darce… I wasn't kidding about the city. Things have changed since you went to New Hampshire. You've been gone—what, six years almost? This place is going downhill, and it's not looking good. Seems like no one cares anymore." She forced out a sigh in a quick, short gust. "Are you sure right now is the best time to look for a job here?"

"Why not? This place is home."

"Well, for starters, 'this place' is completely corrupt. People are sitting back and—and letting this happen." She took her eyes off the darkening road and looked over, hard, at the other woman.

"I'm not 'sitting back' by looking for a job. I'm trying to help," Darcy murmured heavily, avoiding Sheila's hefty gaze.

"Point taken. But I didn't mean that you should do something to help. I meant that it's dangerous to be here. Everyone has an ulterior motive. Everyone's selling each other out. I've been thinking about moving lately. Problems are getting too big to fix.

"I—oh, here's your stop. We can talk more later, I promise. Sorry to boot you out, but if we're not going somewhere, I have to pick up some food for dinner and work on my column. Good luck with the job."

"Thanks. Thanks for the ride, too. –I promise I'll get a car soon." Darcy unbuckled her seatbelt and got out of the car, shouldering her purse and waving goodbye over her shoulder.

She entered her apartment building just before night swallowed the city whole. Sheila waited until her friend was safely within the lobby, then drove off into the darkness. The oily, yellowing moon glistened in a sky too polluted for stars to shine.

…

Author's Note

Words cannot begin to express how humbled and flattered I am to receive so many kind and encouraging reviews. All of you have definitely set a high standard for this story, and (while I'm terrified about what it's going to do to my already-hectic sleep schedule) I appreciate the challenge. I only hope I won't lose all of you by going off in another one of my famous rambling author's notes…

**Amazon Wolf** – Thanks! Do you have any posting dates set for your new Cranefics yet? After _Sweet Insanity_, I can't wait.

**Azina Zelle **– Please continue to impress me with your gorgeous work and I'll try to do the same for you:-)

**Bimefl** – You hit the nail on the head when you were wondering if my next OC would be reminiscent of Amy. Hang in there for a few more chapters and hopefully I'll be able to make an effective connection.

**E Kelly** – You were curious as to the age of Jonathan in Chapter 1. Well, it's something I haven't directly confronted, but seeing as I like to think of him as thirty or thirty-one in _Batman Begins_, that would make him about ten or eleven in the first chapter. I agree with you that the taunts of his peers are a little juvenile for fourth-graders, but the idea of simple, niggling insults pushing him over the edge as a child was just too appealing. By the way, I concur, Bruce Wayne _is_ fascinating—anyone who can survive the humiliating ordeal of flying in a moronic contraption dubbed the 'Whirly-Bat' in the 1950s, and still come off as terrifying, is a hero worthy of our worship for that alone. :-)

**Haloration** – Thank you. As I'm sure I've mentioned in a recent review, it's an honor to have a gifted writer like you reading this story. When will _Nichols _be updated? I'm positively dying to read the next chapter. And if you've received my latest review, yes, I realize I've accidentally put your story on my Story Alert_ twice_ as of now, if that's possible. The second time I did it, I totally forgot that I had done it before, and so now I suppose it's ready to doubly alert me when you post. The fic makes me a little distracted, what can I say? (If those last three sentences make no sense, just know that I appreciate your feedback and my lack of sleep is starting to slowly drive me insane.)

**Hikyaku **and **Mizamour** – Both of you suggested publication as a valid option for this story. I'm honored, but I'm fairly certain the chain of events following _Dark My Light_'s release would go like so: I'd enjoy a brief time in the spotlight and squeal with delight every time I saw found a copy in a bookstore, but my happiness would be brought to a grinding halt by the combined forces of Warner Bros. and DC Comics. A fiery legal battle would ensue shortly thereafter, the only memorable highlight of which being the defendant (yours truly) consistently swooning at the sight of prosecution witness Cillian Murphy. Hmmm…much as I'd die to finally meet Cillian in my local courthouse, I'd rather have your lovely feedback than an unending lawsuit on my hands. :-) It was a thought anyway. Thank you.

**Lily1186** – I will definitely keep things up for an author like you. Thanks.

**mirandatheGIANT** – Yes, Gotham City was an absolute pleasure to write. "She'll" be taking a backseat in the next few chapters, but I hope you'll stay involved.

**Morgan** – your review made me laugh out loud—you couldn't be any more correct. _Yes_, Jonathan Crane needs to get laid as soon as is humanly possible. And I have no intention of letting him escape that fate in this fic.

**SpadesJade** – I am so delighted that my story has already touched you on such an immediate level. I've never had a reader respond with such enthusiasm, openness, and sincerity. My parents were both teachers early on in their careers, and I have nothing but respect for those who teach and inspire. I'm glad that my work was able to convey that respect. Thank you for sharing your feelings with me.

**The Logical Ghost** – I'm glad you liked Amy (while she lasted). Now that she's dead and (sort of) gone, I hope you'll continue to enjoy the story regardless. Please keep the splendid Cranefics coming! I loved _Be Afraid_.

**Winged Seraph **– You wondered if _Dark My Light_ should be modified to _Darken My Light_. I completely understand where you're coming from, and, yes, it would be true, if the 'dark' of the title were a verb. However, in this case it_ is_ an adjective and is correct as is. It really should have been 'my light is dark' or 'dark is my light'; I don't blame you in the least. There is no real way to have known this unless you happen to be familiar with the poetry of Theodore Roethke. The full poem will preface a later chapter, and I hope your confusion will be cleared up. I'm really sorry. Thank you so much for your review.

And, in closing, my apologies to **any and all of you** who have taken a dislike to Darcy Crandell or the twist this story has taken, for I know there will always be such people out there and I'd really hate to lose you after the first chapter. I have done my best to shy away from the pitfalls and traps of cliché and Mary-Sueism in the preparation of this manuscript, but nothing is ever totally watertight. I can only offer my disgruntled readers my heartfelt regrets and the small solace that Dr. Crane will be back in Chapter 4, if you can wait that long. This story is truly about Jonathan Crane at heart and, despite the shifting viewpoints from which it is told, is intended to chronicle his Faustian descent into Hell—with maybe a little failed love on the side. If you positively can't abide this chapter—or even if you _can_—drop me a line. Either way, I'd love to hear your thoughts.

Thanks! _Je vous adore! _

Blodeuedd


	3. A horror of thoughts

A horror of thoughts that suddenly are real.

We must endure our thoughts all night, until

The bright obvious stands motionless in cold.

-from _Man Carrying Thing_ by Wallace Stevens

…

The door to her apartment was painted a lewd, vile shade of apple green. It was easily the ugliest color Darcy had ever seen. A color that, according to Sheila's loudly articulated first impression, was reminiscent of vomit and other revolting things.

Somehow, despite the odds against it from the minute its new owner's best friend had given it a seal of disapproval, the door's revolting hue had grown on Darcy during the past three days. Ugly as hell, yes. But better, far better, than rats in the walls. Or cockroaches in the shower. Better than no door at all.

Aside from the hideous green entrance, the apartment was a decent place. Far from posh or even charming, but suitable and, most importantly, safe.

Darcy had taken great care in selecting a secure neighborhood and a trustworthy building. A young woman alone in Gotham was put in a most precarious and volatile situation, but Darcy was convinced that at least a fraction of the danger was eliminated by use of common sense and caution. So she'd been practical and cautious. And, for the time being, it would seem she'd succeeded.

As she stepped into her lightless bedroom, her inner commentary and insides froze. _Dark, dark, dark._ Every breath seemed a perilous labor. Blind eyes tore at the night.

But the fear subsided as she quickly flicked on the light in one panic-quickened motion and waited for the giddy buzz of horror in her brain to fade—nothing there, just light.

She let her heartbeat slow and set about changing out of the stiff, drab suit she'd worn to the interview and into some soft flannel pajamas. After rinsing her thin mask of cosmetics off her face, she pulled her unruly dark hair from its sober bun and into a limp ponytail.

Going to the tiny, malfunction-prone fridge that had come with her apartment, she extricated a plastic-wrapped sandwich from its humming white interior. She'd made it for lunch that afternoon, but had forgotten it in her pre-interview jitters; now it was dinner instead. She ate the thing with slow neglect, surveying her still mostly unfurnished apartment, running through one of her detailed mental checklists as she did so.

Bed…unpacked, set to go for its first night. Couch…on its way from that store in New Hampshire.

New cookware…_damn_. She'd take care of that tomorrow. Could she afford—? Yes. Her dormant funds could go for a little while longer before she was really in dire need of the position at Arkham. Or any other occupation short of prostitution that would earn her some cash.

Car…she could look for a used one in the classifieds and put Sheila out of the chauffeuring biz forever. For now, however, she could only continue to unpack the apparently innumerable cardboard boxes stacked in the corner, like she'd been doing all weekend.

Finishing the sandwich, reluctantly licking the cloying mayonnaise off her fingers out of necessity, Darcy set to work. The concentrated tranquility with which she worked was broken only by the whisper of unfolding cardboard and the mutter of various packing materials.

The first box she reached for was a small one, with the words _Sentiment. Items_ scrawled on its top in her messy, loose hand. She knew that she should have gone for _Bathroom Stuff_ or _Electronics_ first—it didn't take an extraordinarily intelligent person to know that those two were by far the more practical choices—but she grinned in impetuous noncompliance and tore the box open anyway, easily unfolding its thin lid. Her heart lifted as it recognized its own contents nestled amid the bubble wrap.

A one-eyed, mangy-looking stuffed toy cat was the first voyager to set foot on the pallid carpet. Darcy gently thumbed one of its floppy ears, then reached in to pull out a framed photo. Her eyes knew what they would see as she slowly removed the layers of bubble wrap, but looked nonetheless.

It had been a candid shot, taken by a friend.

The couple lounged on a bench in Hanover. Clearly autumn. Both were bundled up for a cold, cloudy day. The girl worse a thick dark coat, a cranberry scarf, and sleek blue jeans. Her head rested comfortably in the boy's lap, one arm dangling to the leaf-strewn grass as her warm eyes gazed up at his.

Darcy Crandell, three years and an entire naive ideology ago.

She couldn't help but smile and ruefully shake her head as she looked at Mike. His cheeks were flushed with the cold, nearly the same lovely dark red as his tousled hair. He gazed straight at the camera, almost defiant, his smile broad and confident. He was completely unaware of the adoring girl in his lap, numb to the heart that strained toward his princely own.

Had it really only been a year and a half since she had declared her independence from Mike Laramie? She'd slammed dormitory doors and shouted profanities and cried like a baby and thrown the engagement ring in his face. Acted just like the pathetic, silly child that his arrogant upperclassman mind had seen her as all along.

His ego should have been bruised. It _should_ have.

But he'd still had the damnable gallantry to call her up after her graduation from Dartmouth and tell her about the opening at his workplace. With his typical tolerant gentility, he'd braved the cold at the other end of the line and encouraged her to try applying.

No; she couldn't throw the photo away just yet. Setting it aside, beyond her line of sight, she slowly—slowly resumed her efforts.

The next possession to emerge was her beloved psychology textbook, saved from the first semester of freshman year. She opened the book to a random page, knowing as she did so that, at this rate, she would be done with this single box by next year.

_A person who is psychotic has lost contact with reality and is either occasionally or constantly…_

What a happy thought. She halted mid-sentence, turned the page.

_Schizophrenics often believe others hear and "steal" their thoughts. Sometimes they fear they have lost control of bodily movement as well as thoughts…_

Darcy shut the book with a sudden snap that was almost deafening.

If she got this internship at Arkham, she'd be in the same building as some of the most convoluted and dangerous minds in Gotham every single day. She would hear their screams and file transcriptions of their psychoanalysis sessions. Each night, the place would become quiet and frozen—still brightly lit and carefully monitored, but quiet as a tomb, so quiet you could almost hear the murderous thoughts that slid under, seeped out of, the doors of the cells like—

The phone rang.

Pulse hammering, she jumped to her feet, searching madly for the source of the shrill racket.

Breathing deep, Darcy ran to where the phone hung on the hall and picked it up, voice light and sugary and false as she spoke into the receiver she was clutching so tightly.

"Hello?"

"Darce, baby, is that you?"

"Hi, Mom."

She glanced at the clock: six-thirty. Of course. Just the weekly call.

"Everything okay, sweetheart? How's the apartment?"

"It's fine. In a great neighborhood. Just a few blocks from where we used to live, actually."

"Well, your father and I are just _dying_ to see it. Need a bit of help with paying for furniture and whatnot?"

"_No_, Mother." Courtney Crandell had never stopped seeing her daughter as another one of her charity cases, it would seem.

"I know—I know. I just can't believe you're so…so grown up and—_Harold!_ Come and talk to your only child!"

_Dear Lord._ "Mom, I don't—"

A familiar voice hushed her protests.

"Hello? Darcy?"

"Oh, hello, Dad."

"How are you? Have you applied for that internship yet?"

"Yes. Um, the interview was today, actually." She glanced at the window, tugging at a loose lock of hair.

"And? How'd it go?"

She thought carefully, wavering between giving him a misleadingly optimistic answer and a dolefully honest one. In the end, she went with dolefully honest.

"It was mediocre. Doubt I'll get the job."

"_No_ _one_ would turn down _our_ baby girl!"

The outraged shriek was certainly not her father. Darcy's brow furrowed in sudden recognition.

"Mom? What? Why are you—the other phone—again—"

"Your father and I hardly ever get to talk to you together anymore, dear." Her mother's voice was a melodramatic plea. "Indulge me."

"I—" Might as well. "Fine."

"You'll get the job, Darcy," her father assured her calmly, "Don't you worry."

"Have you bought a car yet?" Her mother demanded to know, voice bright.

"No, not yet—"

"Need help with that? I could send you some money and it'll be there in—"

"I think I've saved enough money up for—"

"Are you sure, honey? Are you _positive_?"

Darcy bit back a groan of frustration. "Look, Mom, I can't talk to either of you with both of you on the phone!"

Silence.

"She's a little tense about the interview, Courtney. Be easy on her."

"Um, I've got a bit of unpacking to do, Dad. Is it—"

"It's okay, Darce," he said warmly, "Take care."  
"Kisses, Darcy! Call when you have the time."

"I will, Mom. I promise. Love you both."

The line died cradled in her palm, and she hung up with a sigh of relief.

She loved her parents. But sometimes her mother's onslaught of adoration was too much to stomach. Twenty-four years of the tangling vines of parental affection were more than enough.

But the sudden silence seemed oppressive. Before she returned to unpacking, Darcy turned on the television, which had been unpacked and plugged in over the weekend.

"And in local news, a Gotham businessman was found violently beaten to death in a subway car about an hour ago. Here's Graham Wilson at the scene of the brutal crime with the details—" Darcy tuned out the dark words, taking out some books of poetry and laying them on the rug beside the textbook. But the thoughts the words provoked refused to be so ignored.

Sheila was right: as much and as desperately as she wanted to prove her friend wrong, the city was slowly but surely collapsing before their eyes.

The thought saddened her; Gotham City was her home. It had been, ever since she could remember. An immortal, fantastic place that held surprises and quirks for the city's seasoned natives and inquisitive tourists alike. Even the epidemic depression it had suffered during her childhood hadn't been enough to dim its luster completely.

Dartmouth and Hanover had seemed so rural and pastoral in comparison; she remembered her first homesick phone call home from college, when she had asked her mother to hold the receiver out the window of their old apartment so she could hear the bustle and clangor of traffic and countless people.

She had learned to love the countryside during her studies in New Hampshire. Where Gotham had been steel and shine, Hanover had been leaf and green. The isolation and small size which had tormented her at first soon became familiar comforts. But _nothing_ could beat that first thrill of adrenaline she'd felt when her plane had landed in Gotham Airport. She was home, permanently, for the first time in six years.

But Darcy hadn't expected to see so much sadness, so much anger, so much distress in the familiar face of her mother city. Carmine Falcone and his seemingly endless ranks of underlings, who'd seemed powerful enough when she'd left six years ago, now had Gotham in a chokehold. The police force was badly crippled and almost powerless, and those few officers who weren't helpless were irrevocably corrupt. Crime rates were soaring and justice was becoming a thing of the past. The city was eating itself from the inside out.

Buildings that had shone half a decade ago were now in urgent need of repairs. Their immaculate façades were blurred with graffiti. Fresh dark asphalt had become broken and gray. Garbage littered the avenues and the lines leading to the scarce soup kitchens were seemingly endless.

It had been enough to make Darcy want to donate half of her precious funds to a charity organization within seconds. Anything—anything to make things all right. Anything to right the dismal wrongs which seemed to have occurred overnight.

The people she'd talked to during her first few weeks back in Gotham had seemed unsurprised by the state of their city.

'It's just a big place,' they'd said, shrugging as they handed her a newspaper or a hot dog or a cup of coffee. Their eyes sad—yes. But dull and uncaring, too. 'Getting too big to take care of. Happens everywhere, doesn't it?'

They wouldn't even mention the distortion that was taking place right under their noses. The dishonesties and falsehoods that took root everywhere, from the sidewalks to the lobby of the city hall. The lies that no longer had to be hidden for fear of lawful punishment.

Darcy had tried to keep her faith. She'd tried to brush off Sheila's continuous remarks about the disrepair and the dirt. She'd tried to remain hopeful and loyal.

But on evenings like these, when police sirens seemed like merely an omnipresent part of the background noise of the city, when the occasional scream tore the air and no voice answered, when the homeless gathered like moths around tiny fires that did little to thaw the chill about a human heart…it was hard.

Hard to hope, hard to worry, hard to even care at all.

What made _her_, of all people, saintly enough to care? Was she too good for welcoming the deterioration with open arms? Was she too damned virtuous to be neutral and indifferent? She knew she wasn't. She knew she was as petty and unpleasant as the rest of them.

Suddenly angry and miserable, she tossed aside the bubble-wrapped parcel she was unpacking, switched off the television, and crawled into bed. She squeezed her eyes shut until it hurt and odd patterns danced across the backs of her closed lids. Mind wide-awake, furious, buzzing, cold—she knew she wouldn't get much sleep tonight.

Too tired and too afraid to turn off the light.

* * *

Author's Note

I am so glad that I managed to meet my self-imposed 'post every Friday' deadline; my computer was off for most of the week because of the threat of the lethal 'Zotob' worm preying on Windows computers everywhere. Luckily for me, my darling readers weren't similarly deterred: twenty-seven reviews for two chapters? I am tickled pink by the thought of so many responses. Please, all of you should treat yourselves to a screening of _Red Eye _and something chocolaty this weekend as a reward for your awesomeness. I'll pay for every penny spent in the process in my heart. :-)

**Azina Zelle** – Yes, Crane does have a way of turning even the most mundane processes into utter agony. But that's why we love him, right? Heehee. Anyway, thanks. I know I've _really_ got a story going if the readers can 'see' it unfolding in their minds—either I'm not botching my work (for once) or you guys are really imaginative. :-)

**Codie** – Much as I love my regular readers, it's always a pleasure to 'hear' a fresh voice in the reviews. It lets me know that I still have what it takes to reel readers in. ;-) But, of course, whether you're getting your time's worth or not is totally up to you.

**Colleen** – Yay! It's an honor to have the support of the New Hampshire people, or at least one of them. :-) I'm far, far away on the West Coast, but Dartmouth has always been one of my favorite schools—I couldn't resist letting my OC attend in my stead. I'm glad you noticed the inclusion.

**CrazedPony** – 'Demented splendor.' Love it! Please write a Cranefic soon if you haven't already; you have a definite way with words that I'd like to see channeled into this genre.

**LadyTavington076** – Please don't cut me! Here's the chapter you wanted:-)

**Mizamour** – Aw, shucks. :-)

**Morgan** – That's funny, Darcy kind of acts like _me_ too. Wishful thinking, I suppose. So…really rough sex, eh? Hmmm. That brings me to my raunchy question of the day: would he the one doing the 'roughing' or receiving it? ;-D

**Rokudenashi** – I'm so honored to have you 'on board.' _Of Shared Brilliance_ is a scrumptious read and I hope everyone here who hasn't already devoured it will follow my lead soon.

**SpadesJade** – I promise to try to get the plot going soon enough. Thanks for being here to cheer me on!

**Valse De La Luna **– Here's your update! Hope you enjoyed. As I said to **Codie**, it's lovely to have so many new people reading this and giving me feedback.

**Winged Seraph **– I'm glad my work has become a source of inspiration. Whatever works to get a fellow writer out of a rut!

**Yukari-chan** – Thanks and best of luck on your Cranefic. Like Jonathan, Dr. Harleen Quinzel is an excellent _Batman_ character and it would interesting to see what parallels could be drawn between the two 'mad doctors.'

Oh, a note to my new readers (**Valse De La Luna**, **Yukari-chan**, **crazedPony**, **LadyTavington076**, **Codie**, and **Colleen**): I usually make it a point of mine to immediately read and review a story by those members who have been so kind as to leave _me_ a review. This week (see above for more), I was unable to do so and I feel crappy for shortchanging you. So (heh heh) leave _another_ review for this chapter and I'll read your fics ASAP. I can't wait to check out your work.

Next chapter _is_ from Crane's POV, so those of you who got dry heaves when you saw that #3 was from Darcy's POV can put away the Pepto-Bismol and relax for the time being. :-)

Love

Blodeuedd

p.s. The snippets from Darcy's textbook _are_ real facts and have been taken from the 'Behavioral and emotional problems' section of my family's well-worn copy of _The American Medical Association Family Medical Guide_, edited by the venerable Jeffrey R.M. Kunz, MD, and Asher J. Finkel, MD. In doing this, I have not benefited in any way, let alone financially. (Nope, still broke!)


	4. From breakfast to madness

You, Doctor Martin, walk

from breakfast to madness.

-from _You, Doctor Martin_ by Anne Sexton

…

The new patient was a wreck, even by Arkham's high standards of shattered sanity.

His pale, colorless eyes slid from side to side, their whites mottled and bloodshot from sleepless nights and frequent doses of sedatives too numerous to name. Straitjacketed as he was, he still twitched and trembled with the familiar electric fear, his nostrils flaring and contracting in equine panic. The veins in his neck were dark and distended with blood.

Jonathan Crane entered the room and seated himself across from the patient with a thin smile. The other man stiffened as if he'd pulled out a weapon instead. A surprisingly wise reflex.

The man was clearly weak, vacillating. Malleable. Sliding in and out of reality like a snake. In a single ironic phrase, he was exactly what the doctor had ordered.

Joseph L. Atherton may have murdered his wife and her parents last month, but whatever homicidal strength had possessed him in August had long since vanished. He was no longer the lethal maniac that the dark-suited prosecuting lawyers had made him out to be. Just a senseless, pitiful thing, suffering from anxiety and an unusually severe personality disorder, but bereft of humanity and the refuge that the possession of such a quality would offer under normal circumstances.

He was truly insane, unlike the ruffians that Jonathan had been—_bribed into _was the only real way to describe it, despite the unsavory connotations—breaking his back for in the courts during recent weeks.

As he settled himself, Jonathan felt the hard outline of the panic button under the table press against his kneecap, but ignored it. He had never felt any urge to use the button. Nor, he was pleased to note, had he even entertained the notion once in his career. A psychiatrist who fled his own patient was no doctor at all.

'_Don't be afraid.'_ He hadn't been afraid since a warm day in spring, nineteen years ago.

Even if he had been able to feel fright anymore, Jonathan knew he had no need to fear even the most volatile of his patients. Given time and proper psychiatric treatment, any inmate could become docile and compliant. Jonathan had browbeaten a number of hardened criminals into respectful terror in his time, even before he'd been given the chemical means to do so.

The magnificent thing about professional psychiatry, he'd decided long ago in some anonymous lecture hall, was that one could tear apart the mind of a patient in the laughable name of science.

His wasn't a method promoted by any of the books or the studies, but it worked well for him. Even before he'd set foot in medical school, he'd cultivated his own secret ideals and rules and techniques, born of his own devising and arcane, radical knowledge gleaned from his books. He knew that his way was far better suited to him than anything his teachers could have provided. Even if it hadn't been superior to begin with, no dull professor's teachings could replicate the immense gratification he felt every time he sat down with his patients. By diverging from the beaten path, he was realizing his own power—the authority of intelligence mentioned by an irate science teacher to a principal years ago.

It had taken years to perfect and cultivate his games, but it was more than worth the wait. And now, the munificent League of Shadows was providing him with the material resources necessary to unleash his admittedly unusual approach to psychiatry and give it physical substance. His time was almost come.

But it would have to wait a little while longer; at the moment, Dr. Jonathan Crane was with a patient.

"Good morning, Mr. Atherton. Welcome to Arkham. How are we feeling?"

The man wet sallow lips, his tapping foot's nervous percussion slowing so he could respond. His taut, pallid skin stretched over the frail skull beneath. "G-good."

"How did you find breakfast?" He eyed Atherton over his glassed with stifled hunger.

Establishing a relationship was always a nice option with the weak ones. Jonathan had seen a hundred cases like Atherton's before. They were the ones who wouldn't lunge at the throat of anything that moved if they had a fleeting instant outside their straitjackets. The pathetic ones who entered the asylum with terrified eyes and mute panic. While Jonathan was confident of his ability when it came to handling those who were marked by fury, he preferred the fear. The fear drew him to those who felt it like the smell of blood.

The frightened patients would not doubt the friendship of a psychiatrist, whose powers in a mental hospital verged on the divine. No, they would never realize the darker intentions of such a friend until it was too late. Until the toxin swam in their veins and manipulated their minds in ways Jonathan had only dreamed of.

"Was all right."

"Good. Good. Is there anything _you_ would like to talk about, Mr. Atherton? Before we begin?" He kept his tone lilting, expectant.

Emotions flickered like a slideshow across the vulnerable, moonlike face. Jonathan liked this transparency about his patients. They were possessed by a sordid, childlike honesty that pervaded everything they said and did. After all, there was no reason to hide anything here, in the heart of the city's seething lunacies and folly. It was such a benefit to his research.

And if they _did_ lie to him—well, he'd proved to himself that such deceit was always short-lived in the face of careful and intensive therapy.

"No." Atherton's mouth sounded full of dust. He shook his head slowly, as if it pained him.

"Then we should probably get started."

"Y-yeah."

At first, Jonathan's questions were simple. Innocuous, really.

But then he stopped holding himself back. Slipped on his mask and—

…

An hour later, he returned to his office to transcribe the notes he'd made during the session onto his computer. He was barely able to suppress the thrilling, reckless excitement that was still throbbing in his bones. Playing at being God was giddy work.

The entire session had been captured on tape by the security cameras that diligently surveyed each room in the Asylum, but Jonathan had little reason to worry. Most of the lower-ranking guards of Arkham had been surprisingly willing to stay quiet about what they saw from the safety of the surveillance room for paltry sums of money, and his secrets were safe with them. Only that saint Valencia seemed aloof to the age-old monetary lure, but as long as the man's duties kept him far from where the tapes were kept, Jonathan couldn't care less.

He recorded notes of falsified observances, progress, prescriptions, and optimism for Atherton's recovery in a file that was easily accessible to any of the Arkham staff. His other, far more detailed observations he kept for himself, password-protected and securely locked away.

Finishing his two reports, he glanced at his schedule and found he had a fortuitous thirty-minute time opening before his next appointment. Half an hour seemed long enough to select an intern. He took the twelve applications from a filing cabinet and paged through them, mouth twisting with impatient distaste.

Through the interviews he'd anonymously conducted, he had been able to truly examine the candidates. And, as usual, he hadn't particularly enjoyed the results of his examination.

All of them were seedlings of the overconfident breed of idiots who had gleefully taken up the ancient and glorious post of Jonathan Crane's tormenters upon his respective arrivals at college and medical school. The usual self-centered college grads, only a few years younger than himself and fresh from prestigious liberal arts schools, convinced that their parents' money trumped all of the complications their extravagant and carefree lives would provide.

Disgusted, Jonathan resisted the base and rather unprofessional urge to send all twelve portfolios through the nearby shredder.

Every year, the same thing. He'd hire another mindless, bootlicking intern to fetch his coffee and make phone calls. The only small pleasure to be sapped from the entire affair was found in giving them a few good—but, sadly, always insipid—scares before they frolicked off to medical school.

Well, there _was_ another small joy to be found, albeit even more fleeting: asking the bright-eyed young men and women his perennial "nature of evil" question. In their arrogance, they believed that they _had_ to provide an answer, however preposterous, to the question many experienced doctors had struggled with for ages. They didn't even pause to consider that there was no true answer.

No, they just barreled on ahead like irreverent freight trains, each coming up with a more implausible answer than the last. It was often all he could do just to keep from chortling aloud as they gibbered on about psychosis and the results of recent studies.

Who was it that had foiled his fun this year? Intrigued, he riffled through the papers until he came to the name that matched his tantalizingly vague memory.

Ah, her. She'd been the only one to actually admit her ignorance. First step in the right direction, in his opinion.

Curious, he tried to recall the interview in question. Despite its appealing originality, the memory was three days old and beginning to stale. But he did remember a dark, austere appearance and awkward silence after awkward silence. There was barely concealed frustration on her part; the usual fiendish delight on his. It had been a difficult Monday for him, if he recalled correctly, and he'd been particularly insensitive and brutal behind his mask of secrecy.

She'd left flustered and clearly dismayed, but not before giving him a slight flash of a fire that had otherwise been stifled during the half-hour interview.

_'Arkham is a far cry from a high school in New Hampshire, you must realize,' he'd said, unable to rein in his scorn._

_If she'd been like any of the other sycophants applying for the job, she would have submitted without a word, but instead, she'd snapped back, 'I am quite aware of the contrast.' As if her chance at the internship hadn't been on the line._

The memory of one defiant woman became another. Dark hair became light; gawky height became petite, fragile. A severe, effortless beauty became mere plainness. Intense dark eyes softened, weakened to a gentle brown. Different yet similar.

Suppressing a groan, he took his glasses off and ground the flats of his palms into his tight-shut eyes, as if it would take the thoughts away, the once-dormant thoughts that now rose to beat at the door of his consciousness.

Amy.

He was stronger now, he knew it. _Those_ thoughts were solidly confined to a corner of his mind that he seldom cared to frequent. He had no desire to return to a time when he'd been prisoner to a loveless family and a scapegoat scarecrow to his peers. To a place where every day had been gray and sunless and full of pain. He didn't want to remember being weak.

Years had gone by and he'd expelled his frailties from himself, one at a time, never allowing himself to feel their loss. He'd almost forgotten the day when Amy Lancaster had sworn before her insensitive employer to help _him_, to save the nervous, gawky child he'd been.

Jonathan skimmed the application without really pausing to examine it, knowing he was merely buying himself time to think. Then he surveyed the other applications with a feline contempt. Perhaps—yes. Perhaps—

A knock at the door cut his meticulous thought process short.

"Enter," he called, stopping himself from barking the word in annoyance. Barely—the order still tasted of impatience as he spoke it.

The man who entered then also wore the immaculate white coat of an Arkham doctor, but his didn't hang loose on a gaunt frame as Jonathan's did. The garment fit neatly and without wrinkle over broad shoulders and a lean but muscular body, in a way that such an unappealing and symbolically bleak article of clothing should have been unable to do.

Jonathan's eyes narrowed, almost imperceptibly. He donned his glasses once more to disguise the instinctive movement.

"Good morning, Dr. Laramie." He slowly shepherded the papers before him into a pile, placing hers on top, looking up at the ruddy-haired psychiatrist with a fiercely territorial silence.

"Morning, Jonathan," Mike Laramie replied affably, shutting the door behind him. "How was Atherton?"

"Still somewhat of a closed book to me, I'm afraid." _He's_ my_ patient. Inquire after him or any of my charges again and I'll rip out your throat._

"You've been working with a lot of the inmates lately. Personally, I like to stick with five or six at the most. Helps me concentrate my efforts. You're seeing—what, ten, eleven? Each day? Aren't you exhausted?"

"Not particularly."

"Well, I could take over on Atherton, if you—"

"Oh, no, no. I couldn't inconvenience you like that. I'm quite capable of handling this sort of case. Don't go out of your way."

Did that last courteous declination sound like the heartfelt order he intended it to be?

"All right, then." The other man shrugged as if it were of no consequence. As if he hadn't been angling for control of another of Jonathan's inmates, just as he had a dozen times before. "Just dropping by to remind you about the Evening at the Courtyard on the twenty-first. Got it under control?"

"Yes. Of course." His stomach coiled in chilling nausea. If there were ever something he detested above all else at the moment, it would be the planning of that accursed annual charity event for Arkham and the warped stew of corruption popularly known as the Gotham City Police Department. Gathering dust on the dark sidelines as Laramie expertly worked the crowds of rich and famous was not exactly Jonathan's ideal way of spending an evening.

"Well, that's all. Take care." There was an anxious beat as Mike waited for a similarly considerate response.

But, finding none, he was soon compelled to leave.

Jonathan glanced at the clock. Ten minutes. He looked down at the foremost application one more time. That ape Laramie may have been the one to refer her to the internship, but she seemed the most bizarre choice he'd made in years.

Picking up his phone, Jonathan dialed the number printed on the application and waited.

"Hi, this is Darcy's apartment. Leave a message and I'll call you."

Jonathan hesitated, suddenly apprehensive, as if he were making a mistake. But the well-worn and sickeningly tepid words came too easily to his lips.

"Hello, Ms. Crandell, this is Dr. Jonathan Crane of Arkham Asylum. I am calling to congratulate you on a successful interview and to inform you that you have been selected to be an intern at the Asylum for the duration of this year. I await your timely response and look forward to discussing the responsibilities and prerequisites of this position in detail…"

* * *

Author's Note

I had the pleasure of seeing _Red Eye _not once but twice this week. I'm not going to give anything away, but I think that _Red Eye_ and _Batman Begins_ were the two best movies in this summer's slough of awful sequels and cheap remakes. Cillian's got that magic touch, I suppose. Ok, ok, _March of the Penguins_ was very cute, but come on…who's hotter, a bunch of waddling, flightless birds or a blue-eyed Irishman with a penchant for playing sexy bad guys? Anyway, onto your reviews… I'll try to put dancing images of Jonathan and Jackson aside long enough to respond in a coherent manner.

**Bubbles** – As pleased as I am with the general reader opinion of Darcy, it's great to know my Crane is doing well too. Thanks for reading!

**Dot** – It's always a great reassurance to my poor, beleaguered heart to hear from my readers that Darcy isn't a Mary Sue. Here's the chapter you wanted! Hope you enjoyed.

**hornofgondor2 **– Ah, the Cillian obsession. I think we all have something of a crazy love for the poor man to read (or in my case, write) this story. :-)

**ILoveScarecrow** – First off, I adore your screen name. It's awesome. Thanks for your kind words.

**Mizamour** – You definitely win the award for Longest Review this week! I promise to check out _Creatures of the Night_ when I have a relaxed hour or two to myself. If it garners long reviews, it must be something. :-)

**Morgan** – Now that I really think about it, you're right: Crane does seem to be a bit of a closet 'rougher.' All those nasty suppressed emotions can't be good, heehee. I'm sure Darcy would let him, er, 'un-suppress' those feelings. Rome _is_ the sex, by the way. I went there last summer.

**Rachel **– (blush) Thank you so, so much. That was like the best review I've ever received. As for your question about how Amy would be strong for Jonathan yet break before Ian Worth's rage: don't all our idols have flaws and weaknesses? I thought it would shatter Jonathan all the more to see his protector wilt in the face of fear. But that's just my byzantine reasoning, of course. Again, thank you. I hope you stay tuned—you're already one of my favorite readers.

**The Nth Degree** – Thanks! By the way, I _really_ enjoyed your fic, _Solitude_; I highly recommend it to everyone else.

**Valse De La Luna** – (hugs Valse back) Thank you! I'm so glad you like the story and I hope you continue to read and review. I need fabulous writers like you to keep my whimsies grounded! ;-D

**Winged Seraph **– Mrs. Courtney Crandell was an absolute pleasure to create. Glad you liked her.

And for **those of you** (if any) who came to this story after reading my _Lucky Night_ fic, I love you guys for reading thus far! I'll love you more if you review, however, hehehe. Hope **all** of you enjoy your weekend. Let's go make _Red Eye_ the number one movie in America! Good God, I can't believe I just wrote that. I _am_ obsessed… Crap!

Love always,

Blodeuedd

p.s. All I need are 2 more paltry reviews before I'm up to 40! Then I can brag that I received 10 for every chapter. Not true, obviously, but a cool thought. This story has garnered more reviews in a shorter amount of time than _any_ of my other fics. **Enormous thanks and hugs to everyone**!


	5. Not a child's game

I signed myself in where a stranger

puts the inked-in X's—

for this is a mental hospital,

not a child's game.

…Today crows play black-jack on the stethoscope.

-from _Flee On Your Donkey_, by Anne Sexton

…

The alarm's strident trill jarred Darcy awake.

And for once, she was glad to hear it. Fully alert by the second ring, she hauled herself out of bed, promptly forgot whatever she'd been dreaming about, and went to the bedroom window. Outside, the streets were already purring and alive.

Padding into the kitchen, she paused to water the vase of fresh orchids on the counter. They were a congratulatory gift from Sheila, and easily the prettiest things in the apartment. Darcy considered their odd, lunatic beauty before putting a slice of bread in the shiny new toaster.

While she waited for the device's chime of completion, she washed the dishes that were lying forgotten in the sink from dinner with her parents the night before.

Dinner—that had certainly been quite a circus. Between her mother's shrill laughter and her father's quiet encouragement, Darcy had felt as if she would be torn in two by the competing extremes. Mrs. Crandell would have stayed until midnight chattering away about her latest fundraiser if she could, but Darcy had been fortunate enough to have the first day of her new internship as an excuse to get them out the door. She'd driven them home herself, incapable of keeping her nagging worries about the city at bay.

Finishing the dishes, she peeled and ate a bright tangerine. The lightly browned toast emerged after a minute and she practically inhaled the thing raw in her hurry to get to the shower. The conditioner was barely rinsed from her hair before she reluctantly left the steamy warmth for the comparatively cold bathroom. As her hair dried, she dressed in the simple gray pants and unfussy white blouse she'd purchased especially for the first day of her new job.

She gazed into the bedroom mirror, expression blank but carefully analyzing every corner of herself. A prim, plain twig of a girl looked back at her, her new façade unsoftened even by the loose dark hair that would have dried in disobedient ripples about her face, had she not tugged it back into a painfully tight bun only moments before. The outfit was severe beyond belief, but practical and professional.

After surveying her appearance yet again, she dragged herself away from the mirror, locking up the apartment before taking the persnickety old elevator down to the building's underground parking structure.

Her new baby—a used black four-door sedan, cheaply bought but still functioning—waited where she'd left it, gleaming dully under the buzzing, flickering lights. She was soon making her ungainly but swift way through the city, almost too excited to drive properly.

Despite the capricious motor, the trip was uneventful, save for when she paused at a stoplight in the Gotham financial district to wink at the enormous, seventy-eight-story Wayne Tower. It was an old family tradition that the Crandells had been doing since she was too young to remember, and today she felt as though the antique gesture might bring her luck.

_This_ was what she'd studied for. _This _was why she'd endured monotonous, misogynistic professors and crammed for all those chemistry tests and spent all those beautiful Saturdays behind hundreds of textbooks and her laptop.

She was finally doing something. Finally going to help.

About her, the city deteriorated as her car crossed the bridge and entered the Narrows. Windows broke. Walls grayed. Hope died.

…

Sheila had been right, Darcy realized. The automated gates slid open with the slow precision of a ghostly machine, revealing a place that was in need of renovations that were easily fifty years overdue.

Arkham Asylum was a sprawling, ugly mess of sanitized, windowless asceticism. And right in the middle of the Narrows, too… A prime piece of real estate indeed. It was almost as if those eerie computerized gates and distrustful guards she'd had to squeeze by had been trying to ward her off rather than keep the Asylum's inhabitants _in_.

Following the directions of the last guard she'd passed, Darcy steered her car towards the mass of unlovely buildings before her. The buildings of the Narrows pressed in on all sides, like eerily nosy neighbors.

'_If you're who you say you are, Dr. Crane should be expecting you up front.'_

Darcy's gaze skimmed the dingy courtyard as she neared the main hall. The only beings that seemed to be waiting there were a murder of loitering crows who had staked out the unwelcoming place as their own, breaking the suffocating quiet with their pulsing black wingbeats and rattling croaks.

Darcy found a place to park and got out of the car. She was almost afraid to slam the door and startle the fierce dark denizens from their roost. The grayish, vile-smelling morning air was cold enough to make her wish she'd thought to bring a jacket; she hadn't been expecting to _wait_ for her new employer, and her light, insubstantial blouse was an insignificant buffer against the chill.

_Dr. Crane._ The very name sounded severe. He was probably some stiff old man, worn down by years of brutal experience. The voice she'd spoken to briefly on the phone during the week before had been made ambiguous by the crackle of her faulty phone line and had lent her no clue to the man to which it belonged.

An indignant chorus of crows hushed her thoughts and made her lift her head.

A lanky figure was striding toward her across the dreary courtyard, a combination of dancing shadow and dark wings obscuring his face. Darcy squinted as he approached.

Young, judging by the light ease of his long strides. The upright strength of his posture. _Don't be stupid—he's a doctor, he _can't_ be young. He'll be forty, or fifty. It takes most people a fair amount of years to get through med school…_

Hair was dark—

The glasses. _Oh fuck._

Back by popular demand: the Snide Intern was making a cameo appearance, looking as skinny and underfed as ever. Resembling nothing more than a heroin addict in a black suit.

But now she had the upper hand, didn't she?

"Hello again," she said flippantly, once he was close enough, staring rebelliously up into his passionless eyes—as rebelliously as she could when he stood a good foot taller than she.

_Bet you never guessed you'd see _me_ again, did you? Well, now I'm your equal. I guess this Dr. Crane is a better judge of character than you are, you slimy, meddling—_

"And a good morning to you, Ms. Crandell." He seemed mildly entertained by her chirpy greeting. "I believe I neglected to introduce myself at our first encounter, and you have my deepest apologies." He paused as if for effect, breath misting in the ashen air. "I am Dr. Jonathan Crane, the director of the Elizabeth Arkham Asylum for the Criminally Insane."

If he did say anything further during the agonizing ten minutes that followed, it was utterly lost in the hum of shock that paralyzed her in that crawling instant.

_He was Crane?_ The man who had become her symbol for all that was evil and antagonistic in her grab for an internship? She noticed her jaw had dropped and hurried to remedy the moronic expression, even as a true sense of cold desolation set in.

She would be working under this—this fiend for an entire year.

"—and so, needless to say, I have a bit of a busy morning to attend to," he was saying placidly when her senses returned. "If you'll follow me, I'll take you on a concise tour of the grounds and then to the doctor's wing, where you'll receive all you need for your duties here. –If you'll follow, Ms. Crandell?"

She realized she'd rooted herself to the spot and shook herself loose. Swallowing her pride and shock, she shouldered her bag and hurried to keep up with him as he led her into the Asylum's open maw.

…

"And here is where you'll receive your ID and necessary accoutrements, Ms. Crandell."

Darcy yanked herself out of lethargy yet again, furious with her sudden inability to hear or comprehend clearly for the past forty-five minutes. Every time she even looked in his direction, she remembered her situation, tasting the awkwardness and unfairness with every nervous gulp.

_So he's your superior here. An ass, but your superior. Get over it._

Despite the fact that her infuriatingly optimistic common sense would have her believe that he was just a chillier, scarier version of her harmlessly smart prom date, it was a bit of a bitter pill to swallow.

To Dr. Crane, she merely nodded. "Thank you, Doctor."

"The pleasure was entirely mine." His face was blank, empty of the phrase's usual warmth or meaning. "Ah—Ms. Crandell, this is Ingram Valencia, one of Arkham's deputy heads of security. He'll escort you through the process." His cold blue eyes glanced at the equally cold crystal of a costly watch face. "I'll be seeing you later." Without another word lavished upon her presence, he turned and headed purposefully up the lurid-lit hall, long shadow half-gleaming on the grubby linoleum tiles behind him.

"His new intern, huh?" A bass rumble inquired from behind.

Darcy turned to face one of the most gigantic men she'd ever seen. His startlingly soft eyes—kind and friendly as an old rag doll's—couldn't have been more out of place in the grizzled, bullish head. Managing a timid, quavering smile, she extended her hand.

"New intern—yes. I'm Darcy Crandell. Nice to meet you."

"Like Crane said: I'm Ingram." He glanced up and down the bleak hall, then gave her a wretched smile that quietly mocked the entire situation. "Welcome to hell, little girl."

She forced out a nervous laugh. His hand engulfed hers for a brief, tremor-like handshake, then released it and returned to hang at his side, lingering over the deadly, polished gleam of a handgun.

"So, need your ID?"

She nodded shyly, feeling like a tiny child again next to the colossal orderly.

"Well, all I'm saying now is, you'd better not lose it. It's the one thing that sets us apart from the inmates; it's worth more than your life here. It _is _your life, here. Understand?"

Darcy nodded again, more slowly this time. He studied her face carefully, testing the verity of her response, then began walking at a slow behemoth's pace. She followed without question, eager to avoid the chill that the Asylum's buzzing fluorescent lights seemed to adopt when she stood alone beneath their glare.

They left the narrow, ominously quiet corridor and entered a white-walled room where a man was working quietly at a desk. He mutely took the driver's license that Ingram indicated that she proffer, then began entering her information into the computer as Ingram led Darcy to where a camera on a tripod waited hungrily before a white screen.

The enormous deputy shook his head when Darcy put on a serious, doctorish face for the photo, laughing low in his throat.

"No, no. Smile," he urged, enormous hands threatening to swallow the tiny-seeming camera. "It'll probably be your last until you stop working here next summer. So, go on. Smile."

Puzzled, she obeyed, smiling as genuinely as she could. A flash of light took her breath away and brought neon spots to dance like moths before her eyes.

As they waited for her ID, Ingram presented her with pepper spray and a taser.

"Standard Asylum gear for staff. Bring them with you every day with your ID. You might be just an intern, but you have to be safe," he informed her, still frighteningly solemn as he extended the items to her.

She accepted the things and slipped them into her pocket, where they lay heavy and cold against her side. Having them made her even more apprehensive than before.

By the time she received her shiny, laminated color ID, attached to a silver clip and complete with personal information and a precise photo, the lemony veneer of her first day at Arkham had faded. Darcy clipped the tag to her blouse without a word. She felt as if she were in one of those nightmares where everything, even herself, was being pushed and forced and compelled to the inevitable, unimaginable end.

…

They walked to the row of psychiatrists' offices on the first floor, both hearing but pretending to be deaf to the mind-wrenching screams that had begun issuing coming from a cell somewhere overhead a few minutes earlier.

When they came to the door of a large corner office, Ingram halted and turned to face her. Thinking he was finally going to acknowledge the unearthly, rasping cries, Darcy managed a polite smile and prepared a quietly droll and professional response.

"Don't let Crane get to you, little girl," he advised her instead, taking her aback. His craggy face was solemn, and the already-present furrow between his bushy brows deepened. "Working at Arkham—sometimes it overwhelms these doctors. The way he is—it'll scare you. Make you feel like an idiot. But just be strong to him and he'll lay off soon."

"Oh. Okay," she murmured wittily.

"Have a nice time," he said with an unsmiling humor. Then he turned away, gone around the corner before she could even remember to thank him.

Darcy looked back at the soundless door before her, heart suddenly clawing a raw, frantic path up her throat. She could really use the confidence that Ingram's intimidating presence at her back had lent her right about now.

She knocked. Twice.

There was a dark pause. She felt as if she were already being examined for flaws, even through the thick flesh of the door.

"Come in," the voice called.

She took one last breath of the sterile air, then ignored her gut instinct to run and did as she'd been told.

_He_—she injected this word with all the mental venom she could consciously muster—was hunched at his computer, glasses reflecting the strident electric blue of the screen.

And—_damn it_—he still looked too young to have this job.

"Have a seat, Ms. Crandell. I have approximately eight to nine minutes to spare before my morning appointment with Mr. Innocenzo."

Meekly, she sat. He knit his fingers together as he had at the interview, looking at them to see all was in order before restoring that calculating gaze to her.

"I will not mince words or prevaricate with you. I am the head of this Asylum and accustomed to a certain degree of respect and vigilance. Above all else, I value punctuality, composure, and prudence in my interns. I do not tolerate anything less.

"You may and most likely will criticize me to my face at least once and perhaps a dozen times out of my earshot in the first six months alone—for my candor, my expectations, my demeanor.

"Understand now that your opinions are of no consequence to me; we will likely never coexist in the same institution again after this. During this year, I only ask that, in spite of your own preconceptions and beliefs concerning the field of psychiatry, you follow my orders to the letter and are prompt and efficient in doing so. This is not a classroom or a lecture hall; this is an institution for real sociopaths and deviants and I advise you watch your step. Do I make myself clear?"

All smug, audacious sarcasm had evaporated—the man was dead serious.

"Yes, Doctor," she replied automatically despite herself, as if expecting hesitation to be met with painful punishment.

"Good. Very good." He seemed pleased by her nervousness. Slowly, the self-satisfied arrogance bled back into him. "Now. You may have, in the course of your studies in psychiatry, learned that the crime rate of nearly any given city skyrockets inexplicably during the summer. This statistical phenomenon is woefully disregarded by most, but is nonetheless immediate to our work. My office is flooded each August by a sea of unfiled papers regarding Arkham's newest inmates. By September, it is an execrable mess.

"With that in mind, Ms. Crandell, my first task for you is a simple one. I ask only that you begin the process of restoring my office to the orderly state it was in during the spring of last year. It is an objective that I am, regretfully, unable to accomplish alone, due to my exacting schedule. But I have faith in your abilities to complete it in my stead."

Darcy stared blankly at him. _Organize his office?_ Did he think she was his secretary?

He perceived her shock and made no effort to disguise his smile as he gathered his things, preparing to leave.

"Best of luck. I will return to the office at four-thirty this afternoon to monitor your progress. Rest assured that I have reserved your easiest assignment as an intern for first."

"Doctor Crane?" It was almost a whimper.

He was already halfway to the door. "Yes?" He asked, with an infuriatingly infinite, cool patience.

"What will my—uh—next assignment be?" _Shining your shoes, perhaps? Scrubbing out the toilets? Trussing you up like an overgrown fowl and throwing you in the Gotham River?_

"How competent of you to ask: organizing the Asylum's autumn charity event, with the cooperation of the G.C.P.D., over the next two weeks. It will be on the twenty-first of this month."

"Oh. I see. –Have a good day, Dr. Crane." She was already resorting to frantic, subconscious bootlicking. _Damn._

He smiled again, in that serpentine way. "I will. Thank you, Ms. Crandell." And then he was gone, leaving Darcy to face the paper-strewn office alone.

As she set her jaw and got to work, she could already feel the beginnings of what would be a horrific headache stirring in her head.

* * *

Author's Note

Sitting on my rear watching the old _Batman_ animated series…not the most productive or ideal way to spend a school night when I have an Algebra 3/Trig quiz tomorrow, but I love you (and Cillian) far too much to_ not_ post.

**Azina Zelle –** So glad you enjoyed Atherton. He shall figure prominently in an upcoming chapter, so it's good to hear. I love your story and will continue to r/r and until I catch up!

**Codie –** Computer dancing! Regardless of safety or practicality, I love the idea! What a thought! (considers trying it, then wisely decides to pass) Well, anyway, here's to psycho yet mildly amusing bad guys! (raises glass)

**Dot –** Now you know how Darcy reacted to her new employer! Muahaha. I don't envy her situation in the least. Crane in the workplace…a tantalizingly kinky prospect for us, but I can imagine that in reality it would be quite painful. This chapter was one of my favorites to write, simply because it deals with that gruesome reality. _Red Eye_ was indeed far too short. But I've outlined this story and it clocks in at about 20 chapters, so I think that should suffice for both of us long-story lovers. :-D

**Eccentric Banshee –** I think you definitely win the "Long Review" award this week! (much confetti is thrown) I promise to always respond to reviewers individually…at least until I go insane or get Carpal Tunnel. :-) You're an awesome writer and reviewer and I can't wait to get another long review in the future!

**Forensic Photographer711 – **Yay! Another new reader! I encourage you to write your own Cranefic if you're considering one—they're a great exercise in writing about a highly unsympathetic (albeit very sexy) character, if nothing else. Plus, I'd love to see what you would do with the premise.

**hornofgondor2 – **Yes, penguins or Cillian…? A question to torment us for ages to come! Heehee.

**Karina of Darkness –** Yeah, I can't stand soppy Cranes either, and I can tell you now that he certainly shan't simper in this story if _I _have anything to say about it. Especially not in the ending…(shudder)…I shall only say it isn't a happy one. Please stay on board!

**Mizamour –** Thanks, darling! As ever, it's a delight and an honor to receive a review from you.

**Phoenix Flame6 – **"Who's Pretty Eyes?" indeed! When I first saw Cillian (aka My Love) in _Batman_, I leaned over to my friend and hissed, "_OhmygodI'minlove!_" He's got something about him that makes you do a little double-take. I'm delighted to hear you like my OCs. I hope they continue to impress.

**Rachel – **I'm happy that you continue to enjoy. Yes, ten-year-old Crane is a little difficult to part with, I must concur, but to chronicle his entire life would have steered the story in a different direction altogether, of course. Please continue to read, though—it's always, always a pleasure to hear from you.

**Skyler McAndrews – **Sorry to make you review twice in one night last time. I post each Friday, to warn you in advance. Hope you keep reading; we both share a love of writing and reading dark prose…

**SpadesJade:** You know, I would have accepted my mom's money too. ;-) No pride whatsoever. By the way, when will we have another Cranefic from you? I love your other stuff, but you do him justice.

This author's note, like all of my others, was written yesterday (I'm writing this on the Thursday night before my traditional Friday posting), so I apologize to those of you who have reviewed in the narrow window of time between when I write my reader responses and post my next chapter. You have been left out of my responses, but not my heart, I promise. After all, 'twas _you_ that got me to **50+** reviews! (even more confetti is thrown)

You all come back now for Chapter 6, you hear:-) The first five lucky reviewers will receive a big hug and prolonged snog from Cillian Murphy in their dreams. If, er, that's what they want…I assume you'd want that, if you're reading this story…I know I would, _I've_ already had a dream like that…erm, I'm rambling, just review anyway.

Love, Blodeuedd


	6. This final uneasiness

am I to be locked in this

final uneasiness.

-from _The Rain_ by Robert Creeley

…

It took three and a half days to fully organize the office of Dr. Jonathan Crane.

The task was every inch as demeaning and arduous as he'd intended it to be. Learning the layout of the office alone had taken an hour, with all its labeled drawers and complexities, and that preliminary exploration had proven to be the most exciting part so far.

At four-thirty sharp on the first day, he returned as promised, standing like a dark, rail-thin line of ink against his office's white walls. Darcy was absorbed in double-checking her progress with the first filing cabinet; she barely heard the door open and close.

"Well?"

She looked up at the simple query, hands poised and pale over the folders. "It seems to be going pretty smoothly," she said, managing a cheerful smile as bright and artificial as the lighting overhead.

His dry lips mirrored the smile, but seemingly more out of wicked entertainment rather than the belief that she was making progress. "You are free to go at five, Ms. Crandell. But…" he trailed off, looking at his newly tidy desk and the half-completed filing cabinet, the first in a row of six. "…you may want to stay around for a while to advance to a more satisfactory point. The Asylum closes its doors for the night at eight. For most of us, anyway."

He took a few folders from a drawer and strode off in his maddeningly lordly manner. Despite her exasperation, she had enough common sense to wait until he was gone before the teeth-grinding and mental tantrums resumed.

The week progressed, and she spent unbroken stretches of time in the cramped room, alphabetizing, sorting, filing, labeling. At times, she simply wanted to throw the papers and files aside and sob like a child, but she refused to shed a tear in his domain. She was convinced that he would be able to sniff out the least physical sign of despair, and worked almost to distraction to maintain her composure even outside of his presence.

By the end of the third day, she was ready to be committed herself. She crawled home to her apartment, sick and spent. Her nights were weary and dreamless, spent only seeing white sheets of paper and Crane's indecipherable, abbreviated writing each time she closed her trembling eyes.

Dr. Crane himself was often absent from the office, spending his mornings and many of his afternoons at the Gotham City courthouse. He rarely had a sneering word for Darcy beyond that conversation on the first day; she almost felt cheated by his indifference.

It took an eternity, but by noon on the fourth day, the office was neatly in order. She had barely returned from a quiet celebratory lunch before he'd come to present her with her next project.

"Nicely done, Ms. Crandell," he said, adjusting his steely glasses to examine his carefully arranged shelves of books.

He paused to brush some dust off the nearest shelf. Darcy bristled as if struck; had he expected her to dust and mop?

"Nicely done," he repeated tonelessly, turning away from the bookshelves, "Now that you've acquainted yourself with my office, you may begin work on the charity event." He spoke as if granting her a privilege, but the last two words were carefully enunciated, as if he'd have liked to chop them up with his teeth. "The phone book, as you must have learned by now, is kept in the top left-hand drawer of my desk, and the event's overview and typical agenda can be found somewhere nearby. Both will prove useful. I will be available at twelve and four-thirty if you have need of my assistance, but I'd prefer to remain removed from this as much as possible."

Darcy stared at him. He merely nodded as if her gape were completely justified and left the room.

…

Mike Laramie paid the office a visit a week later. She was so caught up in squabbling over vinaigrette that she never even saw him enter.

"Yes. _Yes_, I'm sure the reduced-fat is delicious, but no—no thank you. I'd like the Italian, the Chinese Ginger, the—exactly. Just as I initially ordered. Thank you." She hurried to scribble down the price and details of her progress, still huddled over her work. "Thank you. Yes, by four p.m., please. On the twenty-first. Bye."

Sighing, she hung up the phone and ran her shaky fingers through her frail, loose dark hair. Today, to further corroborate her image of imperturbable repose, she'd taken the gamble of dispensing with the severe formality of her usual chignon and—after much laboring in front of the mirror early that morning—her hair was hanging glossy and straight to her shoulder blades. So she at least had the pretense of being totally at ease in her overwhelming new environment.

"He's managed to pin the Evening at the Courtyard on you, huh?"

Was Crane back early? Darcy's blood froze, mortified by the thought of being caught in such an empty moment. Her eyes flew up to meet his.

"Oh—Mike." Her breathing leveled but remained slightly rough.

"Sorry, Darce." Mike raised his hands, almost in surrender. "We're a little jumpy today, aren't we?"

"Sorry," she echoed vaguely, "A-a little wound-up, yeah."

He smiled, flashing like the noon sun on water. "It happens around here. It's okay."

"Mike?" She blurted, unable to stop herself.

"Yeah?"

"What happened to your eyebrow? Your left."

His hand went up to his russet brow. A white scar lanced across it, leaving a thin line where no hair had grown back. The jaunty irregularity only heightened his raffish handsomeness.

"Oh, my eyebrow. A few months ago, a new patient got hold of a switchblade somehow on the ride home from court and went crazy the minute he set foot in here. Took two doctors, including me, and three guards to get it out of his hands. Long story short, he slashed open my head in the process. It's no big deal," he remarked lightly, seeing her expression, "Arkham marks everyone at some point or another. I'm lucky, actually, compared to some of the people here. Dr. Cruz got a nasty old cut on his arm from the time that Lucas tried to throw himself out a window, and Agnes still has the bruises from when one of her patients got hold of an orderly's baton. I think Ichabod here's the only one who's still unscathed…"

"Ichabod—_who_?"

Mike's infectious smile widened, his mischievous blue eyes alight with the answer.

"Oh, Mike. Be nice."

Ignoring her disapproval, he leaned in conspiratorially, his voice a silky, playful whisper. "Come on…you've thought of it. At least once, right? Admit it. _'Crane'_…the name…the walk—"

She was still not amused. "That's just immature, Mike."

He shook his head, his expression refusing to sober, ruddy with suppressed mirth. "So, graduated from Dartmouth this spring?"

"Uh, yes." Now that the opportunity for censure had disappeared, Darcy tried to swallow her agitated nostalgia, but it lodged like a stone in her throat. She busied herself in toying nervously with the nearby computer mouse.

"And you got the internship—congrats. Knew you would. Crane's nasty, but you're irresistible. You'll do well here."

She pushed the mouse away, unable to hold herself back. "Anything else you here for besides talk, Dr. Laramie?" She forced out, unable to get the brusqueness out of her tone.

He saw the hostility in her face and eased up. "Actually, yes. Do you know where the file of one Kenneth Carr would be? I think he's suffering from—"

"I do." Damned if she didn't know every corner of the office by memory. She stood and went to the row of filing cabinets, flicking through cream-colored folders until she found the name. "Here you go." She placed the file in his outstretched hands.

The hands were something that she couldn't stop staring at. The hands that had held hers under sky, under leaves, under stars, under water. Under fireworks, during an Independence Day celebration in Hanover two years ago, where he'd given her a firework of her own to sparkle on her finger. She'd said yes and wept with happiness, but later the firework had cooled to a dull, colorless ember when she'd wrenched it off her hand and flung it away—

"—Darcy? I said thanks."

She realized she was still gripping the file tightly and let go. He watched her wavering face, and he was suddenly grave and tender and vigilant when he spoke again.

"You're taking things too seriously, Darce. Calm down."

"Maybe," she admitted in a broken voice, sagging back down into the chair, resisting the urge to bury her face in her hands while he was in front of her.

"Hair looks nice though."

"Um—thanks."

"Life's been a little rough for me, too," Mike remarked sympathetically, thumbing the file. "Arkham's getting its fingers in politics. People are starting to think that the two new patients that Icha—uh, Crane brought in from the trials are sane. And that this defendant he's testifying for at the moment, Zsasz, is sane too. Just the other night I got a call from some assistant D.A. who seemed hell-bent on getting things straight."

"Oh, he wouldn't," she breathed. Vindictively sadistic or not, Dr. Crane seemed to work as if his life depended on it—he couldn't be as corrupt as most of Gotham. Something in her wouldn't let her believe it, but whether it was out of genuine sympathy for the man or stolid refusal to believe she was working for a corrupt superior, she couldn't tell.

Mike shrugged, expression thoughtful. "I don't know for sure either. But it's bothering me that rumors like this are being spread about the Asylum's director—and its most qualified psychiatrist to boot—and I'm curious to find out why."

"I don't think he's like that, Mike. Maybe they're wrong."

His face darkened. "I know, I know; I didn't say he was. –So hey, going to this fall soiree he's set you to work on?"

"I-I don't know. I might be too busy."

"Come on," he coaxed, mischievous again, "Think of it as a chance to examine the bandwagon mentality of Gotham's elite. A psych project."

Darcy smiled despite herself, but remained firm. "I'm just an intern. I'm probably not—"

"You're not 'just an intern' if I drive you."

She looked up at him, surprised to her core. Everything in her told her to be cold and refuse her former fiancé one last chance.

"—Sure," she blurted without thinking, instantly feeling as if she'd just electrocuted herself.

"Hey, it's just a ride. Nothing else."

"I suppose." She stared up numbly, caught in the headlights of him.

"Well…I'll be seeing you around this madhouse, won't I?"

"You will, I suppose." She relaxed a little, enough to loosen her shoulders out of their tense knots as he turned to go.

"Ms. Crandell?"

She nearly toppled out of the chair. Dr. Crane stood in the doorway—he had so seamlessly made himself a part of his office that there was no way of telling how long he'd been standing there. His cool, heavy-lidded disapproval didn't flicker for an instant when Mike turned to face him and condemned himself as an accomplice.

"Dr. Laramie."

"Hi, Jonathan. I was just picking up Carr's file, like you asked. Trial get out early?"

Mike might as well have not spoken for all the effect his merry remark had on Crane's pale, fine-boned face.

"You of all people should be above petty fraternization. Both of you have work to attend to." His clear, resonant voice put ice to shame, but Darcy could tell that something external to the situation was bothering him beneath his frozen demeanor. The fastidious appearance was not so fastidious, the long fingers that gripped the briefcase were white at the knuckles, the brilliant blue eyes were dull and seemed to see through both of them. She knew Mike, trained doctor as he was, didn't see it. He wouldn't have deigned to see it.

"Yes, work," Mike agreed undauntedly, folder falling to his side. "Have an appointment with Dan Murray in ten minutes or so. See you both later." He left, taking the office's last vestiges of warmth with him.

Like a chagrined child, Darcy found herself avoiding Crane's gaze. But his distant attitude remained; instead of rebuking her any further, he gathered up some new papers from his inbox and placed them soundlessly in his briefcase. His movements were so guarded and careful that she didn't notice the sadness in them until the door closed behind him once more.

…

"He's already asked you _out?_" Sheila's voice rose in a sharp yelp. "What is he thinking, doing something like that? I never thought—when is it? The twenty-first? That's only—let's see—five days away, but I'll see if I can get myself assigned to cover it."

"Oh, god. Sheila, the last thing I want is a story on it in the_ Times_. I don't even know why I said yes."

Darcy frowned at the pot of discouragingly tepid tomato soup sitting on the antediluvian stovetop, then moved the phone to a more comfortable spot so she could stir with one hand.

"I'm so surprised you two are back together," Sheila muttered, mostly to herself. Darcy could almost see her friend pacing her apartment floor in vigorous obsession.

"Look, it's nothing. Even he said so."

"'Nothing'? Ha! Look, _I_ would know. I've been covering stuff about him in my column for months—Dr. Mike Laramie is one of the most eligible bachelors in Gotham City. He might even be picked as the new director of the Asylum next year. He's done a lot for Arkham and the Narrows in two years: raised funding and awareness, met with the CEOs of several—"

"I get it. Thank you, Sheila. My question is—is it okay? To be doing this?"

She might as well have been asking if the sky were blue.

"_Yes!_ It's darling. Totally acceptable. Oh, and speaking of eligible bachelors—you must have heard by now—Darce, Bruce Wayne's back."

"You're kidding." The spoon fell into the lukewarm soup with a plop. "_The_ Bruce Wayne?"

"None other."

"I can't believe it."

"Believe it."

"Do you remember when all the papers were going on about how he'd left Princeton and disappeared after showing up at the trial—god, I forget the name of the man who killed his parents. But do you remember? We cut out all his pictures from the newspaper and were convinced that we'd be the ones to find—"

"Be the ones to find him! Yes! And I beat you in a race to the park to see who would marry him! We were seventeen, right? Were we lacking in maturity or what?" Sheila's delighted laughter filled her ears. "So, is there any chance that you could invite him to this event you're planning? You know, for his grand return to society?" A note of girlish hope entered her voice.

"Probably not." Darcy fumbled around in the soup to retrieve the lost spoon. "There's this entire outline and rigid guest list I'm supposed to follow. Crane insisted upon it. Ugh. He is a sick man. There is a fine line between devotion to one's work and addiction—he was still in the Asylum today when I left at six."

"Doesn't matter what he does," Sheila replied dismissively, "You're going on a date with Laramie and, like it or not, I _will _be coming over there three hours beforehand to help you prep. You couldn't do your own hair to save your life, Darce. And you _do_ have a dress, right?"

…

Author's Note

First of all, congrats to **The Nth Degree**, **Mizamour**, **Codie**, **hornofgondor2**, and **Jumana** (who also gets a special tiara for being a new reviewer)! You five reviewed first. Let the crazy Cillian dreams commence (except in the case of **Eccentric Banshee**; I think she and I agree that she's had quite enough Cillian already)!

**Azina Zelle** – Sorry, this is going to be short because I received your review (my seventieth on this story!!! AWESOME!) right before I posted this chapter. Ha! A honeymoon with Crane! There's an oxymoron if I ever saw one. Please keep reading!

**Codie** – Yeah, you have a point…she is _so_ much safer in the office than out 'in the field' with Crane.

**Dot** – _Thanks!_ I'm glad I made the idea of working for Crane something so realistically terrible that I made a lot of my die-hard 'Craniac' fans cringe instead of swoon. Please keep reading; I love hearing from you!

**Dr. E. Vance** – Chapter 6 is _heeere_! Hope you liked. _Tasteless Breathing_ was a work of art and I'm honored to have you reading my story. Can we expect any more poetry from you in the future?? (hopeful grin)

**Eccentric Banshee** – Yay! Another long, scrumptious review! Where to begin… You've made a very perceptive point: part of Jonathan is still a child, beneath that rime of frost. Even his evil is rooted in that childishness, for it was in childhood that his desire for revenge was triggered. I would love to psychoanalyze the man, but something in me suspects_ I'd_ end up being mentally dissected, not him. He is a truly scary villain, and the scariest part is how he uses his mind (and yours) against you. You're quite brave to hug him—I too have a brother, and, like you, know the innate danger of embracing _any_ male, let alone Crane. :-D Talking lotion bottle? Hmm, the human subconscious is funny thing, no? By the way, I'm delighted you noticed how hard I've worked on grammar! I think I toil over making my stories grammatically perfect almost more than I toil over writing them. (accepts scented candles and cookies with wide eyes) Again, thanks!

**hornofgondor2 **– So glad you're continuing to r/r! Enjoy your Cillian dream. ;-)

**Jumana** – 'Arrogant git,' LOL! That he is. And the torture shall continue, I promise. :-D

**Karina of Darkness** – Cillian in closet…there's a nice thought, one of the best I've heard since I began this story. (scurries over to peep inside her closet) Darn. He must be hiding in one of my Steve Maddens. I'll keep looking, though. ;-) Thanks for being such a faithful reviewer!

**Mizamour** – Stay tuned! And let me know when you update your lovely fic!!

**Rachel** – (trips over own feet to welcome Rachel) Hurrah!! If I haven't said it a gazillion times before, your reviews_ rock my world_! You mix thought-provoking reflections with constructive, considerate feedback…The Harry Potter comparisons and thoughts on Mary-Sueism were especially delish. Thanks so, so much for continuing to read—I appreciated hearing from you immensely.

**rokudenashi** – Thanks for reviewing. When will we be seeing more of _Of Shared Brilliance_? 'Tis a brilliant fic. :-) Hugs!

**SpadesJade** – Yay! Another SJ Cranefic! (dances) I concur—interning blows! I made my dad pay for my shopping spree the other week… Karma's going to get us eventually, I hope you realize. ;-) Well, I've got you on Author Alert, so I'll be sure to review your Cranefic when it arrives.

**The Nth Degree** – Yes, Crane is a bit of a sadist, feeding on the discomfort and pain of others like the psychological leech he is. (A very sexy leech, I might add!) Why do we love him so?? Those eyes… Anyway, loved _Solitude_. Please do a million more Cranefics, I'll read them all! Bach lovers unite!!

**Tigger-180** – Yay! New reader! I'd love to keep hearing more from you!!

**VampireNaomi** – I'm glad Darcy has your consent to go a-courtin'. My readers' approval was something I knew she needed to get from the instant I had the idea for this story. It's good to receive your affirmation that my goal has been reached so far. As for keeping Crane in character, thank my long-suffering editor. If not for her, Crane would probably be running around singing Renaissance ballads and making daisy-chains for his lady-love. Suffice to say, I'm lucky to have my editor around—and so are you readers, for that matter. ;-)

**Winged Seraph** – I know _I'd_ be uncomfortable in Darcy's shoes: stuck in a madhouse, working under Crane, cleaning an office, dealing with my ex-fiancé…bleah! I'm happy to know you're still enjoying this story, despite the trials and tribulations of our lovely heroine. :-)

Again, thanks to all of you for making my busy little life so bright and happy. I checked my Stats the other day and discovered that **a whopping 24 members** had this story on their favorites and **19 others** had it on their alerts! Did that _ever_ make me smile. So, if you're one of those wonderful people and you're reading this now and you haven't left me a review yet, know that I have a very cool 'you-review-me-I'll-review-you' policy and would_ love_ to hear from you. Even random thoughts are welcome!

**Crane's back for Chapter 7! **Hmm, I seem to have a nice 2:1 ratio going for Darcy:Jonathan chapters, don't I?

Ciao, babes (and, to be politically correct, guys …though why a guy would read mush like this is beyond me)!

Blodeuedd


	7. Tears behind the eyes

Fall is grievy, brisk. Tears behind the eyes

almost fall. Fall comes to us as a prize

to rouse us toward our fate.

-from _Dream Songs_, by John Berryman

…

Perhaps they would drag her to some vile back alley and put a silenced bullet between those prying eyes. Take her to a place where no sun would shine. He knew there were many places like that in Gotham; after all, he'd grown up in one such lightless pit. She would die without a sound among the puddles of dark filth and piles of trash. She would be forgotten.

But maybe they would simply strangle her instead; that seemed quiet and quick enough. Beat her to death, perhaps, so the body would be broken beyond recognition. And then again, they might simply poison her food somehow—

Did _anyone_ poison their enemies anymore? The concept seemed terribly medieval.

All he knew was that Carmine Falcone had said Ms. Dawes would die. And that_ he_, Jonathan Crane, had been the one to ask for it.

The knowledge rankled Jonathan. Fear and insanity were nothing to him. The first was an art to be perfected, and the second a paying profession. Either of the pair sealed lips and wiped memories well enough for his liking. They were better than bribes and empty threats, and certainly better than murder. Death was messy, a last resort. Much as he detested the interfering assistant D.A., he had no foolhardy desire to needlessly smear his name with her blood.

Besides, he needed a sane experimental subject for his toxin, preferably sooner rather than later. If the precocious Ms. Dawes had continued to make a nuisance out of herself, he could have dealt with the matter personally, under his own terms. It would have been a pleasure to do so, one of those rare pleasures free of personal entanglement. No one would question the circumstances of her sudden insanity. Years of dealing with hand-wringing family members and sobbing spouses had taught him that almost no one had the gall to question madness.

He could have handled it himself.

The notion took hold and he caught his breath in a brisk irritation. The opportunity for scientific _progress_…and he'd been so spineless as to quietly weather her suspicion-laced yammering, tuck his tail between his legs, and opt for simple, bloody elimination. He knew that by now the issue of her impending murder was already too deeply embroiled in the city's networks of corruption to be revoked; he regretted ever bringing up it up in front of Falcone.

And he abhorred regret.

As he pulled his car to halt outside the Courtyard, the four-star hotel where the charity event was held, he glanced briefly at his reflection in the rearview mirror. Looking in any mirror was something he rarely did—he'd shunned the things in childhood and the habit had stuck—and he was almost surprised to see his likeness staring back.

Making eye contact with other people had been difficult for him to learn, after years of being violently taught that looking too long meant immediate pain. Now, it came easily. He could look even his bitterest foes in the eye and hold their gaze until they squirmed with discomfort. But with himself—the only word to describe the nauseated sensation that filled him was 'difficult.' It was just that. Difficult. Difficult to meet the eyes of the only person who knew his darkness.

Now, the bitter taste of remorse writhing in his mouth, he stared hard, daring himself to hold his own gaze.

The crueler names, the pranks and whispered threats, had come later, in high school and college, when they had grasped the fact that he couldn't fight back, the fact that he was so far gone inside his own head that he _wouldn't _fight back. The beatings had become rarer, thankfully, as he'd grown and passed with honors through prestigious schools, but when they did come, they had deepened in savagery, in hate. The malice became calculated, intentional—no longer the impulsive dislike of a child. But nonetheless, it was still those first, blunt epithets, and not the willful slights and appalling brutality of his higher education years, that cut to the bone.

Freak.

Skeleton.

_Scarecrow._

The frozen blue eyes trembled ever so slightly, as if anticipating a blow. For an instant, they became something pained. Something animal and alive and hurting.

He didn't like that. Suddenly dizzy, he clenched his eyes shut, gripping the steering wheel. It unnerved him to see how much he savored his own pain sometimes.

When Jonathan opened them, his eyes were his again. Icy and shining like fish beneath the glassy surface of a frozen pond. The valet opened the door for him and he stepped out into the icy night air, ignoring the other man's jolly greeting.

Autumn was ending fast—October would be unusually cold this year.

He adjusted his sable-black bow tie and steeled himself for the swarm of high society that waited within the high-ceilinged ballroom within the hotel. Such affairs always set him ill at ease, but the unrest was anesthetized by years of such paltry events. He took them quietly now, like a patient benumbed to the touch of a knife.

…

The Courtyard was perched atop a hill on the outskirts of the Bristol Commons. Its mild altitude and many windows gave Jonathan a breathtaking view of the city he so loathed. There were the glittering skyscrapers, clustered like parasites at the mouth of the Gotham River. Veins of traffic linked together the small islands which the city comprised like the chain of some elaborate necklace. It all seemed so distant and faraway—a tiny golden kingdom in the gullet of autumnal night, masking its brutal streets and hardened citizens behind a glowing exterior. Even the Narrows, a dark tumor in the splendid metropolis, seemed disturbingly serene and remote from afar.

An instinctive anger rose in him as he looked out at the blatant lie of the gleaming skyline, but he swallowed his enmity. Now was neither the time nor the place. Slipping easily through the luminous, prattling crowds, he found a seat at a vacant table in the corner, content to try to forget the wastefulness of Ms. Dawes' death by watching the carnage of society and affluence from a safe distance. Gotham's privileged had long since given up trying to entice him into their games and maneuverings, and now they simply ignored him as he ignored them. Their too-white smiles and painted eyes slid over him like oil on water. They were two different species, they and he. They saw him as much as they saw the slow rot of their tainted city.

He felt rather than saw where Mike Laramie sat, chatting convivially with a couple of journalists and dark-suited men at a table nearby the piano. He clearly had them all listening with rapt attention, drawing them in with his resonant voice and warm laughter. Jonathan's insides convulsed, nauseated as ever at the sight of the man who had become his colleague by some cruel twist of fate.

Blinded by his single-minded dislike, he almost didn't notice Darcy Crandell until Mike Laramie playfully tapped the shoulder of the subdued shadow at his side.

Instead of joining the animated conversation, she shied away from Laramie's touch, clearly annoyed. Jonathan felt a smile tug at his mouth, as had become his habit every time he saw his intern vexed by a situation. He had no pity for her this time; she'd chosen to associate with the personification of odious ego and received her just retribution. He had heard their conversation only half a week before, when he'd returned from the trial of Victor Zsasz, the annoyance of Ms. Dawes' increasing persistence still shrilling in his head. He knew the decision to attend the event with Laramie had been hers. Thoughtless girl.

His amusement quickly subsided when he saw her mutter something to her escort and stalk off, heading for the very same isolated table that he already occupied, unbeknownst to her. Hurriedly, he tried to disappear like he'd done so many times before, fading ghostlike into the laughter, the piano, the candlelight…

And she saw him. He would blame it later on the suddenness of her arrival, the odd cold weather, the distractions, but somehow, bafflingly, she saw him.

"Oh, hello," she said in an oddly strangled voice, "Mind if I sit?" She seemed a little surprised to find him at the table she'd selected for herself, but at least she was determined to remain casual and unperturbed for decorum's sake.

"Not at all." He was too on edge to praise himself for his calm.

Clearly trying to conceal her discomfort, she sat, chewing her lip anxiously and fidgeting with her glass of champagne before asking, "Enjoying the evening?" She couldn't even look him in the eye, but Jonathan was very much accustomed to such treatment from the opposite sex and took it in stride.

"It seems to be going well."

She tried to smile through whatever gloomy mood she was in—an amusing thing to watch—but finally her face crumpled and she had to bury it in her hands. When she lifted her head again, her eyes were shiny and rimmed with smears of black makeup.

"It's not you," she insisted in a quivering voice, mistaking his curiosity for concern, "God—I don't know—he's just so…I don't know. I don't know."

"I presume you mean Dr. Laramie?" He asked mildly, the student in him intrigued by the sudden breakdown.

Sniffling, she nodded. "I don't know how I thought I could deal with him again—after—after—" She tilted her head to the side as if bewildered by her own unbridled emotions, wiping away a bright tear that coursed down her cheek.

"After what?" He pressed, nimbly adopting his persuasive, cajoling psychiatrist's voice. He'd almost forgotten he had such a voice in him—probably, he mused dryly, ever since the fear toxin's research had come to dominate his sessions with patients.

"Oh—we were engaged when I was in college and he was in med school. I broke it off; I always thought he was obsessed with creating this 'image' for himself, with inventing this false—life for him to live, and that he didn't feel anything for me at all, that he was just using me, using the fact that he had me at his side, to make him look better. I don't know," she repeated in a tattered voice. The subject clearly set her askew. Her eyes roamed the bustling room now with a hungry discontent, and her hands plucked and tugged at each other like warring swans.

"Engaged?" He echoed. Sometimes all it took was a single word to cement the perception of mutual understanding.

Recovering, she nodded meekly. "Yes. And—tonight, I just saw the worst in him again, when he was talking to the journalists and the police officers about his goals for Arkham and his own life and—I couldn't stand it. It was too much for me to think about—the fact that he hasn't changed, the fact I let him into my life again…" Her distress was clearly losing speed now, her pale lips trembling as she put a hand to her head, as if to stop the words that stumbled from her mouth. "I felt like he was my last chance for anything in this city. And—it made me afraid. To know I've fallen that far from—where I used to be. I just had to get away."

Jonathan said nothing to this; the question of _why _he was dissecting her with such industry had finally caught up with him, and he could find no comforting answer for himself.

His silence seemed to halt her release, to break the trance. Before it could be stifled behind her usual quiet composure, worry flared to life in her dark, naked eyes. "Please, Dr. Crane—I was just going on. I'm sorry; Mike can't know. I'm sorry—you're his coworker—I shouldn't have. I was just so—" She shook her head, trying to wake herself up. "Promise me you won't tell anyone."

He stared at her, transfixed. She was no longer the impassive, contrived intern he'd seen at work. In the shivering candlelight, she seemed tear-stained and vulnerable—

—_as vulnerable as those thin wrists, vividly remembered. Every stark blue vein and rough purplish bruise intact in his aching head. The long worn hands clutched at his stooped, shrunken shoulders, painful with feeling. He didn't want to see those eyes again, but he saw them in his memories, watery and full of the sadness. Her words searched and stumbled, but the eyes told him all he needed to understand. _

'_Promise, Jonathan. Promise me—'_

He fought off the illusion in a reflexive fury. He was losing himself again. The slips into his past were relatively infrequent, and never had he experienced two in one night. This was absurd.

She _wasn't _Amy. She…she was just on the verge of the uncompromising emotional honesty he knew so well in his patients—that was all he was seeing. His mind, already so bewildered by the tension and anxiety of the past month, was wrongly associating one person, one set of memories, with another. Not Amy. Gotham City had killed Amy Lancaster nineteen years ago, and she wasn't coming back. No matter how hard he wished, consciously or otherwise, the classroom would remain dark and empty. The education unfinished. A globe of the world lying forgotten on bloody asphalt.

He waited until he could answer without the sounds coming out in a sigh, a moan, a whimper. "I never break my promises, Ms. Crandell," he replied, choosing words carefully, "Those in psychiatry are familiar with being committed to secrecy."

Her lips quirked in sly, silent answer; it was painfully evident that she didn't trust him—perhaps the first display of real intelligence she'd shown since they'd met. Her feathery black lashes, gummed together with weeping, cast fragile but heavy shadows across her face. The silence quickly grew cumbersome, and she seemed to be searching for something to say.

"This must be a question you get all the time, Dr. Crane," she said at last, voice still thin but light, "But what made you decide to go into psychiatry?"

Oh, the delicious irony. The question fully brought him back to the present. Reminded him of the wall of unyielding hostility that a little boy had once built between himself and the world.

"It's not something I particularly care to talk about," he replied in his blandest voice.

Her friendliness thwarted—_as she should have known it would be,_ he thought coldly to himself, still annoyed with the intrusion—she averted her surprised gaze to the tablecloth.

Safe now, Jonathan relaxed behind the protection of his mask. Ah, good. All was well.

It would have become an awkward situation not long after that moment, had it not been for the arrival of Mike Laramie.

"Hey, Darce," he said, voice quiet but still not lacking in its ubiquitous joviality, "Why'd you leave me? I had no idea where you'd gone off to…"

_'Why'd you leave?' _

_She'd accepted the blows as if she deserved them, staggering and falling to the earth like a flightless bird. _

His fretful mind fell easily into the pattern this time. He dug in his heels with the last of his resolve and struggled with the grief, tugging backwards, backwards to the real.

Why was everything so _wrong_ tonight?

"Just wanted to be alone," Darcy murmured in an alto whisper. Jonathan looked up from his clenched fists and realized she was looking at him with an oddly intent gaze that didn't match her voice at all.

"Hey, Jonathan," Laramie said, following Darcy's gaze and seeing him, "How's it going? Want to come join us? Hobnob a little?"

"No thank you." He almost forgot to add the traditional tag of thanks to the flat refusal.

"Well, let us know when you do—have a good evening," the other man said with a shrug, guiding Darcy away, leaving Jonathan to flounder in his own darkening thoughts.

…

He couldn't let himself fall apart.

He got into the car and rolled up the window the valet had left down. He shut the night out and stared at the dim road before him as if he had just awakened. The darkness seemed new, bleaker, colder, pressing in upon the car's suddenly fragile windows. Things moved fast, too fast for him to catch or comprehend.

There was only one thought there as he drove out through the hotel's wrought-iron gates and headed towards the illuminated city. _Don't fall apart._

So much depended on this year. So much would be avenged and finalized and put away forever. He needed to meet his ends—and those of Rā's al Ghūl.

He was just tired and confused; he would sleep tonight and wake with what he needed. The fortifications in his mind would still stand in the morning, as they always had.

He'd always prided himself on the icy distance he'd set between himself and others during the weeks after Amy's murder. By the morning after her death, his childishly defenseless emotions had been carefully locked away, like so many outgrown toys.

His classmates had known the change in him immediately. They had seen the hollow eyes of the no-longer-child in their midst and knew, but had had no name for the empty. They had feared him even more to see how he began to suffer their animosity with patience and inertia.

_Just tired tonight._

So why was he revisiting a time, a place, a woman he'd hoped to never see again? The question was purely rhetorical. He knew why he was bleeding for the first time in twenty years. Oh, he _knew_.

Darcy Crandell. He hated her. Wanted to break her. But even if she lay dead at his feet, he knew he wouldn't be free. Even the sight of her lifeless form would only return him to a day when he'd crouched in the wet black earth behind a clutch of bushes, watching his only solace die before his eyes.

He told himself it was the mere, blunt symbolism of her. She was a figure abstractly connected to his past by his own confused psyche—nothing more. Nothing. Uncertainty bred error, but he had fought uncertainty off before this. He would sleep and wake and it would be tomorrow.

Jonathan Crane had never been given to sentimentality, even before Amy's death. He could only grasp the concepts of fear, of madness, of disease. He had cleansed himself of all else. There was nothing left in him to feel.

He would sleep tonight.

Only now he realized that not once in his bizarre and cruel self-education had he thought to prepare for the return of those soft, ludicrous emotions which had almost been his undoing in the first place.

He named them to himself as others would name vices. Compassion, happiness, delight, warmth. None but Amy had shown him that such tender capacities could exist in human beings. They should have died with her. Tenderness, trust, generosity, love.

_Sleep and wake._

* * *

Author's Note

Not too schmaltzy, I hope? I've never really liked the last paragraph of this chapter; my apologies to you if you share my mixed feelings.

This author's note will be quite brisk, but a little bit is better than nothing, right? AP classes are harder than they look, people! I'm sure those of you who've experienced them will sympathize.

**Arisa Mieko** – Argh, college prep homework…you have my sympathy, darling. Keep writing, though!

**Carpetbag** – Aww! Glad you like! I LOVE CRANE TOO!

**Dot** – Sorry to hear about your Darcy-esque job. Like our lovely lazy Crane, I'm known to shrink from menial tasks like organizing and shift them onto the backs of others. I'm very proud of you to hear you swallowed your misgivings and did it, especially for charity. To do a charity event is always a noble thing. You have my admiration.

**Dr. E. Vance** – Eh, bubblehead girls are my specialty. I'm just glad that Sheila's taking the hit, not Darcy. Love ya! Keep the Cranetry (Crane poetry) coming!

**Hikyaku** – Oh, I absolutely love _Sleepy Hollow_! It's such a great little Tim Burton movie. Johnny Depp as Ichabod… (squeals with delight) And by the way, there is _nothing_ wrong with sliding Crane into your daily life. A little more Crane is a beautiful thing, when it can be had.

**hornofgondor2 **– I don't think _anyone_ can get enough of Cillian—he's why you're all deigning to read this story, right? Heh…in my opinion, 'enough' and 'Cillian' are oxymoronic unless the sentence in question is 'Enough strawberries and champagne, Cillian my darling…the fire is low and I believe it is time for us to retire!' I'm such a sick girl.

**Kagerou-chan** – Happy to know you appreciate the Ichabod reference. I too am surprised no one else has made the obvious connection between Batman and Washington Irving; Jonathan _was_ called 'Ichabod' by his childhood tormentors in the comic books and I would have thought other people would have used it first. Guess I'm lucky.

**Karina of Darkness** – Iloveyoutoogladyou'reenjoyingthestory.:-)

**Mizamour** – Heh…Mike… ;-) POST A NEW CHAPTER SOON, PLEASE:-D

**Skyler McAndrews **– Of _course_ Crane could kick Mike's rear any day! You'll see! ;-)

**SpadesJade** – Eeek! I seem to have confused some of my readers. I didn't intend for Crane's 'sadness' in Chapter 6 to be perceived as premature love, but many reviewers (believe me, not just you!) construed it as such. I meant for his agitation to be growing worry and frustration over Rachel's persistent interfering and believed that his reasons would become apparent in Chapter 7, but I guess I wasn't clear enough. And now that I reread over the part in question, it _does_ seem terribly odd. Sorry! Crane's not _that_ much of a softie, I promise, even though we'd all love him to be… Hope you keep reviewing regardless. (hopeful eyes)

**The Nth Degree** – Sorry about the lack of email thing on my profile—talk to my parents. THE SOUNDTRACK IS SO AWESOME! As for your (completely justified!) Mike-hate, let's just say that Crane will, ah, hurt Mike in a distant chapter…and leave it at that for now. No further comment. ;-) Thanks so much for reviewing! _Je t'aime!_

**Vampire Naomi** – Your review, what with its immediate reference to chocolate cake, makes me quite hungry for a slice myself…but I must focus. Lucky me! Being the fluff-loving writer I am, I must confess that I _did_, at some point or another, toy with both the 'Bruce' and 'cleanup discovery' ideas you mentioned; it's very fortunate that I ended up doing without both. Kudos for keeping my rampant fluffness in check and making this story the 'steamy sex and jealousy'**-less** story it ought to be! LOL. :-)

**Winged Seraph** – Ah yes, the ex. I'm like you—I'd be screaming and throwing things at him:-D

Well, that's all for now! All I'm going to say about **Chapter 8** at this time is that a) **someone is stabbed with a fork** and b) **we find out more about Darcy's odd reaction to the dark (as first seen in Chapter 2)**!

Love you all!

Blodeuedd


	8. The dark is melting

The dark is melting. We touch like cripples.

-from _Event_ by Sylvia Plath

…

In Darcy's opinion, Arkham Asylum lacked many things. Warmth and comfort came immediately to mind. But following not far after were safety and other women. It was the absence of safety that discouraged the latter from straying too near the institution's baroque, rusting gates. Female criminals who pled insanity were mostly relegated to Cinque Center, the women's reformatory across town. As for staff, there were only a few brave souls who had had the nerve to ascend to their posts.

Dr. Agnes Bannon was one of these rare women, the one that Darcy knew best. They had met when Crane had sent Darcy on an errand to his female colleague's office.

Agnes was soft-voiced and elfin, with ash-blond hair cropped close to her head. She worked with the lower-risk patients in the Asylum's lower levels on odd days, but mostly did the research and tedious tasks at which the other psychiatrists balked. Wispy as she was, her pale green eyes had always seemed to contain some odd, secret well of strength, tempered by experience and learning things the hard way. Darcy had come to admire the older woman over time, and had even harbored hopes of becoming something like her once she graduated from medical school.

Because of this, it terrified Darcy to see Dr. Bannon burst into the office early in November, gasping for breath. Fresh blood stained her white coat.

"Dr. Bannon?" Darcy blurted, standing shakily and setting aside the notes she'd been transcribing.

"Where is Jonathan?" The psychiatrist panted, voice raspy from her rush.

"He should be back from the courts in a minute or two—what happened? What's going on?" Going to the phone, poised to dial for help, she couldn't help but gape at the smears of blood. Agnes followed the younger woman's eyes and shook her head.

"Not—mine. It's Atherton—tried to commit suicide—"

"H-how? Is he one of Dr. Crane's patients?"

"Yes. Stole a fork from the dining hall—and stabbed himself. I saw from the surveillance room and—and went with some orderlies—he's bleeding all over—missed his heart but hit an artery—"

"Oh, God. Dr. Crane should be here soon," Darcy parroted blindly, the phone frozen in midair, halfway to her ear.

"What's going on, Ms. Crandell?"

One instant, he wasn't there—the next, he was. Crane had returned. Both women wheeled about to face him.

"Jonathan." Dr. Bannon had caught her breath now and her voice was low and collected. "Atherton just tried to stab himself. You should go up there and talk him through it before they take him to the hospital wing."

He looked at her blankly, almost as if he hadn't understood, but when he spoke again his voice was low and musing. "Kill himself—he's never tried that before. Unusual. –I want him put on suicide watch when he returns from the sickbay. Come with me, Dr. Bannon. Bring a tape recorder so I can analyze the discussion later. Ms. Crandell, dial Ingram Valencia's extension. He'll be in his office. Tell him the situation and have him attend Mr. Atherton's cell as soon as possible. "

Dr. Bannon's face was pale and downcast. "I'd rather not follow you this time, Jonathan—he's in an odd state, this one. Oddest state I've ever seen. I'll fetch Ingram for you, but I—" She trailed off helplessly, hands raising in an effort to explain and then falling just as quickly.

The other psychiatrist did not blink. "I see," he murmured. "Ms. Crandell, are you properly insured?"

"Last I checked, yes."

"Bring the tape recorder and come with me. You are to do exactly as I say."

"I—" Her body felt cold and numb with shock.

"Uncertainty is not an option at the moment. Get the recorder and come with me." His voice was as chillingly grave as it had been when they had met in his office on the first day.

Ears ringing, she grabbed the tape recorder from the desk and fished a blank tape out of a drawer. He was already out the door, seizing his stainless white coat from a hook as he went.

They walked without sound to the elevator; he pressed a button and they shot upwards with a speed that made her stomach lurch. The doors opened and they exited without missing a single beat. Lanky as Darcy was, she had to take two steps for every brisk stride of his long, spidery legs.

He stopped before a windowless cell, one of a long row, distinguished from the others in the hall only by a bleak line of numbers and letters emblazoned on its grayish metal door. He produced a key and unlocked a scene of nightmarish gore.

Three guards were struggling to restrain a wild-eyed man wearing the neon orange inmate's uniform. His clothes and hands were soaked with red, and he thrashed like a caught fish, limbs flailing, mouth gasping. A fork lay on the ground nearby. It would have seemed an innocent utensil caught in the wrong place at the wrong time, but the blood pooling about it bespoke its complicity in the patient's current disheveled state.

"Mr. Atherton," Dr. Crane breathed, exhaling the word in a sigh of amused, almost maternal disappointment.

The man heard his name and suddenly went still, sinking back against the guard, wheezing and pressing himself as far away from Crane as he could get.

"No—no—_no_," he mumbled, teeth clicking and grinding like a machine.

"Leave us," Dr. Crane ordered, turning from his patient to the guards.

"Doctor—" one of the husky men protested.

"I can handle this. Release him, please. Ms. Crandell, begin recording and take a seat on the bench near the door. If I tell you to leave, you are to exit and close the door behind you."

Darcy obeyed, eyes boring an incredulous hole into Crane's back as the guards left. _What the hell was he doing?_

The door shut with a screech of iron and the heavy click of an automatic lock. She felt as if she were being sealed in a tomb. The bloodstained patient standing weakly in the corner seemed to share her feeling—he sagged against the padded wall like a crippled animal and sank to the floor, his sickly gaze never leaving that of his psychiatrist. The silence thickened quickly, like something rotting in the water, slow and queasy.

"Mr. Atherton," Dr. Crane repeated in that same dangerously lulling voice, as if saying the name would bring him power. "Would you mind telling us what you have done?"

There was a painful silence as the man twisted and shifted under the heat of Crane's gaze, like a burning leaf, curling inwards with the slow honesty of death.

"Go—go away," he murmured at last, so quietly that Darcy could barely hear his voice even over the almost-soundless hiss of the recording, "Leave me—_alone_."

Ramrod-straight as his bearing had seemed before, Dr. Crane seemed to grow even taller, as if in pleasure. "Be reasonable, Mr. Atherton. There is nothing to fear."

"You," Atherton countered, raising a shaking hand to point at his doctor, "_You_."

"I'm only trying to help you. Now, tell us what you did." His voice was a purr, so cajoling and silky that even Darcy felt slightly hypnotized. The patient seemed to sense the mesmerizing effect as well; his rolling eyes slowed and his convulsions subsided.

"I didn't want it anymore." The words came slowly and with hesitation, rising from the inmate's rough throat.

"Want what, Mr. Atherton?"

The bloody man was silent as he wrung his hands, breath rattling in his ribs.

"Mr. Atherton?" Crane prompted gently, folding his hands patiently behind his back. Darcy stared at his long white fingers as if transfixed, trying not to let her eyes stray to the crimson stains that lay beyond her forcibly narrowed line of sight. If she focused hard enough on the nearly translucent skin and delicate boning, she could almost forget the gathering tension that twisted them all tighter, tighter with each ragged breath Atherton took.

"Mr. Atherton. Answer me, please."

There was an audible gulp before the man answered; Darcy could almost taste the nervous dryness of the patient's mouth in her own.

"The drugs you give. I don't want them."

"And what have my drugs done to you, Mr. Atherton?"

The other man seemed to have recovered himself. "No—I won't—not again—" Darcy's heart gave a soundless lurch as Atherton lunged for the bloodied fork, his eyes wild. His reddened fingers closed around it, yanking it off the floor with a whisper of metal, raising it between himself and his doctor.

"_No._"

"Don't be ridiculous, Mr. Atherton. Put the fork down."

The fork clattered to the floor again, and the patient shrank back against the padded walls again, like a vampire recoiling from a crucifix—except he wasn't the one seeming like a vampire at the moment, Darcy realized with a shudder.

"_Tell me_," Dr. Crane commanded, taking a step forward, voice rising and growing tight, excited. "I give you your medicine, Joseph Atherton, because it is my intent to cure you and to make you a better man. I want to see you as a healthy and content member of our society. If you don't like the medicine I prescribe for you, there must be some reason. As your doctor, I must know. Do you not _want_ to be happy? Tell me, Mr. Atherton. Because if you reject your doses, your life will _not_ be happy, I can promise you that—"

Atherton flinched away from the other man's mounting lecture, shielding his face with a bloody hand, the whites of his eyes stark and glassy. "No," he sobbed, rebellion melting as he shrank away into the corner, "No—please—I want to be happy, Doctor—don't—"

"Then you must tell me, Mr. Atherton."

Darcy couldn't bear to watch anymore—the play of terror across the inmate's face was too repulsive. Her pre-med education was rudimentary, but all of her _knew_ this wasn't therapy in the least. _Stop it, Crane…_

Before she could recover her senses, the tape recorder slid from her limp hands with a deafening clatter. The tape popped out and skittered across the floor. She watched it dance across the floor, helpless.

The lean psychiatrist wheeled about to face her. His expression was blank but his eyes were livid with a rage that hovered ominously over her like a surgeon's knife, the edge of its dangerous proximity keener than the actual blade itself.

The door opened again, and Ingram Valencia lumbered into the room with the three guards and a stretcher. Dr. Bannon hovered outside the door, face colorless.

"We need to get this man to the hospital ward right away," Ingram rumbled, sending a skeptical look at Crane before returning his gaze to the prone patient. The orderlies hurried to comply. Atherton let himself be carried to and strapped down on the stretcher without a word, eyes glazed and blind.

Dizzy with nausea, Darcy was afraid to bring herself to look at her employer again after seeing the venom in his eyes. But when she finally glanced sideways at him again, his face was vacant once more, bare of any emotion. She only just stopped herself from sighing aloud with noisy relief as she exited the cell.

"Turn off the lights," Ingram ordered over his shoulder to Crane. The doctor went to the panel outside the padded cubicle, inserted another of his keys, and flicked one of the many switches, plunging the narrow room into darkness.

For a moment, Darcy completely forgot that she'd left the tape recorder in the cell. As she began walking up the cramped hall, she remembered with an odd jolt of fear.

"Dr. Crane?" She stammered, looking anxiously between his departing figure and the still-open doorway leading into the lightless compartment. "Dr. Crane?"

He turned, the chiseled lines of his face still unreadable. "What is it, Ms. Crandell?"

"I need to get the tape recorder."

One dark eyebrow lifted in nonchalance. "Go fetch it then, by all means."

"I need you to turn the lights back on."

"It's on the floor by the entrance, Ms. Crandell."

Heart thudding with reluctance, she shakily declared, "Look—I—I can't."

"Why not?"

She steeled herself, waiting for the typical mocking response that always followed this admission. Even Mike had laughed over it for days when he'd found out, and her parents had chuckled about it at family reunions until her face couldn't get any redder from shame. Afraid—childishly afraid of such a stupid little thing—at her age—

"I can't go into the dark, Dr. Crane."

"'Can't'?" He repeated, voice tinged with a sudden, predatory interest that set her even more on edge than either his coldness or his wrath.

"No, I can't. I'm afraid of the dark. I've been afraid ever since my cousin locked me in a closet when I was three."

"Achluophobia." There was a subdued light in his hawkish blue eyes.

"Y-yes. Or scotophobia, myctophobia, whatever you want to call it." She tried to laugh, but the sound caught in her throat and nearly strangled her. "The psych teachers I've had who found out have repeated the terms enough for me to know them by heart."

He watched her for a moment, then nodded slowly. "I'll turn on the light again."

"Thank you," she breathed in gratitude, forgiving him instantaneously for any and all wrongs.

Wordlessly, he followed her down the hall and repeated his work at the lighting panel. Glorious, fluorescent light filled the cell. Smiling apologetically, Darcy hurried in and fetched the tape recorder from the floor.

"The machine looks fine, but I think the tape's ruined," she said after a moment's silence, as they walked together up the now-empty hall of silent steel doors.

"There will be other tapes," he replied shortly.

It was the kindest thing he'd ever said to her.

* * *

Author's Note

Sorry, this is coming a little late, but today was exhausting. I'm surprised I managed to post before Saturday!

Last I checked, this story has received **103 reviews**—more than I could ever have hoped for. I thank all of you for taking the time to voice your thoughts and hope you will continue to do so in the future.

**Azina Zelle** – I _loved_ writing Chapter 7's opening—it was one that stuck in my mind for ages before I got it out on paper. Glad you enjoyed it just as much. When will we see more of _Shadows of the Mind_?

**Dr. E. Vance2** – A spoon stabbing would require much more force, but it is therefore intriguingly symbolic…hmmm. Thanks for the tip. I love _both_ of your accounts!

**Eccentric Banshee** – I'm sorry FanFiction cut your first review off! That's terrible. Heh, I saw _Batman_ for a third time the other day at my local $3 theater…gotta love the cheapies! I have a scatterbrained strawberry blonde friend too—absentmindedness must be a trait they all have, a result of some bizarre genetic anomaly. :-D _Mean Girls_! I loved _Mean Girls_! It's my guilty pleasure. Lindsay Lohan's _only_ good movie…and even so, any other teen actress could have done better. Anthony Hopkins, on the other hand, frikkin rocks.

**Hikyaku** – Geez, you guys hate Laramie _so much_! I love it! I live for strong reader response.

**hornofgondor2** – I know, poor guy. Craney needs many hugs! (hugs him too, but since Crane has learned to be suspicious of me, he runs away screaming)

**Jonathansgirl18** – I have no idea what 'IC' might stand for besides your suggestion of 'in character,' so I think you're right. Abbreviations always confuse me. ;-) Keep posting _Love of Fear_!

**Jumana** – I love Cillian so much…words cannot describe…brain…malfunctioning…ahhhh…

**Kagerou-chan** – I'm also sorry it wasn't Mike who got the wrong end of the fork. ;-D

**Karina of Darkness** – Heh. Spork. Not a spoon, not a fork. I am _so _sleep-deprived!

**Liz** – Heh, immature high schooler, that's me. I too was fascinated with Crane even before he was big…it's good to meet another die-hard, pre-Batman Begins fan. :-D

**Mizamour** – 30 AUTHOR ALERTS? That's insane, girl! I thought _I _had a lot:-)

**SkylerMcAndrews** – Heh—I had no idea of the parallel between forks and pens when I wrote this chapter back in late July, but now that everyone has pointed it out, it is rather humorous!

**SpadesJade** – Schmaltzschmaltzschmaltz! Yayyyyy!

**Valse De La Luna** – Ugh, AP! Which three classes are you taking?

**VampireNaomi** – You asked a lot of questions in your review. For story's sake, I can't answer them now, but let me just say that your perception of Crane's perception of Darcy is dead-on: she's fairly malleable…especially with her ex in the building. You'll see. ;-)

_Sporks rule, guys!_ **Chapter 9 **is coming soon…and since that little 'sneak preview' thing worked so well for Chapter 8, here it is again. Chapter 9 will include **a) an interesting front-page article** and **b) Crane's addiction (haha! Get it? _Crane's_ addiction? No? Well…_I _thought it was funny.)**

Love, love, nothing but love,

Blodeuedd


	9. They are all gone away

There is ruin and decay

In the House on the Hill:

They are all gone away,

There is nothing more to say.

-from _The House on the Hill_, by Edwin Arlington Robinson

…

To be painfully honest, he'd never liked Carmine Falcone. But past enmity notwithstanding, the front page did not please him in the least.

The enormous photograph was simple, symbolic, verging almost on caricature. An aging, unconscious man, his coat bizarrely and jaggedly torn, was tied to a shining harbor light. Falcone, silhouetted and defeated.

The illicit king of Gotham was overthrown. Rachel Dawes was still alive. Gotham City was beginning to _hope_, of all absurd things.

No, this did not please him at all.

Jonathan folded the newspaper carefully and set it aside, not bothering to reread the momentous article he'd already skimmed a thousand times between appointments since Darcy Crandell had shyly set it on his desk at eight o'clock that morning.

He breathed deeply and slowly, trying to ignore the inevitable press of mental claustrophobia. He had been immune to panic for many, many years, but this quiet, white-hot bile and frenzy was the closest thing to it that he had felt in a long time. His plans couldn't die stillborn, murdered by a clearly disturbed individual masquerading as a bat and a crime lord brought low. The inmates and hired thugs had shouldered his yoke with dutiful, cowed silence and were dumping the toxin into the Gotham River each night by way of the old hydrotherapy room in the bowels of Arkham. He had overseen the operation himself only the other night. It was running perfectly. It was falling into place. Everything had been going so _well_…

He stood roughly to his feet, eyesight blackening and distorting as blood redistributed itself through his body. It was an hour until lunch—the combined time would allow him some escape, some room to think. He knew he had to leave.

Doffing his white doctor's coat and hanging it on its peg by the door, he picked up his empty briefcase and opened the office door—nearly crashing into his intern. Darcy Crandell stepped back, eyes wide and startled.

"Dr. Crane," she exclaimed shakily, "—I made copies of the agenda for the staff meeting this afternoon." As if for proof, she extended a sheaf of glossy new paper.

"Place them on my desk," Jonathan replied, words scraping in his throat, "And mind yourself better next time, will you?"

Carefully contained anger welled up in her features at his deliberate ingratitude. He could see it behind the dark flats of her eyes, in the stifled flush of her cheeks. He had caught himself doing this often lately: lashing out at her, just to see the appearance of that familiar, subdued fury. It dizzied him to see it—it was like watching Amy from across a deserted playground.

He tugged away from the thought with practiced self-denial, rousing himself with the sound of his own voice. "Ms. Crandell, I will be taking an early lunch today. You will see in my schedule that I have no appointments between now and then, but please take any calls I may receive and type up my notes for the meeting."

Had it been a weapon, her expression could have killed him where he stood, but she only nodded mutely and walked past him to the desk, her bearing stiff and abstinent. Amy would have remarked upon his surliness but, fortunately, his intern lacked the authority to further perpetuate that similarity.

Disgusted with himself, he left the room, mentally counting up the change in his wallet for the train fare as he did so. Where he wanted to go was a long way from here.

…

Everything else had changed.

The neighborhood had grown dangerous and ugly, its borders with the distant fringes of the Narrows becoming increasingly vague each time he paid a visit. At this early hour, the chapped sidewalk and filthy streets were abandoned, and the blinds of every house were drawn tightly shut like weary eyelids. But once night fell, he knew the avenue would be teeming with the city's worst, most depraved inhabitants. People like him.

No birds sang in the gaunt, stunted trees; the only sounds were the hourly grumble and whine of the monorail on its tracks overhead and the shrieks and laughter of children at play in the nearby schoolyard of West Gotham Elementary School. All else was eerily still, like a stifled scream. He surveyed the street once more, ensuring that it was as empty as it seemed, then turned to face the familiar sight before him.

Home, sweet home. Everything else might have changed, but it hadn't changed at all. Not once during the thirteen years since he'd first slammed the front door and left for college, with no goodbyes save for the six twenty-dollar bills folded neatly in his pocket. Nothing to treasure, nothing to love, nothing to remember by. Only the heady freedom surging in his blood and the howling empty where he would have mourned his own departure.

Jonathan pushed open the squeaking chain-link gate, but didn't step into the weed-choked yard. For an instant, he hesitated, simply looking at the dilapidated, one-story wreck before him.

He remembered when this house had been the only ugly wound among the dozens of pristine, carefully manicured residences that lined both sides of the street. Now, it reigned supreme over its many look-alikes, the no-longer-solitary exemplar of what its neighbors had been dragged down to become.

Ignoring the signs that proclaimed the place condemned, Jonathan strolled lazily up the front walk, sidestepping the straggling clumps of unruly plants that caught at his shoes. The door had long since been boarded up, but the wood had decayed and weakened over the years, and the nails had rusted or fallen out—opening it was a simple task that grew simpler each time.

He pushed lightly on the door and it groaned inwards, revealing a dank, lightless foyer. To his left was a narrow corridor leading to the dusty kitchen, no longer fragrant with lemon soap, no longer serenaded by fuzzy crackle of opera. The radio was gone, leaving only a ring of discoloration where it had sat and corroded for years, and the forgotten blood that had dripped onto the tiles when he'd returned from school with various injuries had dried and flaked away into nothing.

The chair where _he_—Jonathan knew better now than to call that indistinct shadow-man his father—had sat in the living room was also gone, but the effects of the cigarettes he'd smoked still lingered on the yellowed, peeling wallpaper. The only piece of furniture sitting there now was the table Jonathan had brought for his experiments.

The house was neither the most ideal nor hygienic workspace, but it had been a rather ironically apt location for him to develop his toxin in solitude.

He'd learned early on that his own apartment was no place for a laboratory. The rank smells of failed efforts had lingered for days. Clumsy spills and unfortunate overflows had threatened to permanently stain his expensive carpeting and glossy wood floors. And, of course, the nosy prying of his socialite neighbors alone had been more than enough to wreck his aspirations to work in the privacy of his own home.

So he had returned to his former address and found it derelict, forgotten in the city's bustle and growth, just as he'd hoped. His mother was gone without a trace, his old possessions had disappeared, every scrap of memory had evaporated—all connections to a past life had vanished. The place's disrepair and damp didn't bother him in the least; in fact, it pleased him in some dark way to find it broken and bleeding. He hadn't come to restore it or resurrect his past—he just needed a safe, quiet place where he could conduct his research.

And the decrepit house had served its purpose well. He had put the final touches on his finished product almost a week ago. His work was done, even if things would have to go a little slower than he'd planned.

He'd spent the past few nights emptying the crumbling living room of his supplies, but some evidence of his labors still remained. Scrawled on the walls in various inks were his frenzied notes and formulas, growing visibly more strained and hasty over time. A few musty-smelling chemistry books, relics from his college days, their pages yellowing like bone. A dozen unmarked atomizers sat on the table, full of his personal supply.

Even though his meticulous collection of data had ended long ago, Jonathan had found himself setting aside small samples of the toxin for his own use. Even that hideous mask that had been used during the experimentation period, when he had needed to examine how the use of props had affected his subjects, had been saved and folded neatly on the desk. When he'd finally confronted himself about his macabre hoard, it had become clear to him what he needed to do, what he had wanted to do all along: play an even more active role in Gotham's destruction. To become synonymous with the devastation itself.

He picked up one of the canisters in which he'd stored the substance. It had come a long way from the syringes he'd used on the inmates at first—the blatant impracticality of scampering around on doomsday jamming needles into jugulars had long since occurred to him. Now, he could simply spray the chemical into the faces of his opponents and they would be just as crippled as they would be by injection, transformed, reduced to that sniveling fear that he hungered to see. When Rā's al Ghūl chose his time to strike, Jonathan would strike with him, enacting his revenge upon the city that had tormented and mocked him from youth. He would haunt Gotham's footsteps like a ghost until it was cowering in fear, and then, oh, then—

His thoughts were dizzy, distracted, ecstatic, whipping past him as his heart raced at some swift, wicked speed. One by one, he'd pluck them from the apocalypse and extort every instant of delight from them that he'd ever been denied, every drop of blood and tears that he'd ever shed, from their nourishing panic.

He would choose his targets carefully: everyone who had ever heard his name, everyone who had passed him in the putrid streets, everyone who had ridiculed him and hurt him… Come to think of it, everyone he'd ever known would suffice—

Even Darcy Crandell?

Annoyed, revolted, he turned away from his work, glowering into the stagnant half-darkness. _How could he hesitate?_ For this, he wanted her gone all the more. His feelings for her were just as superficial as her myriad small resemblances to Amy. She was nothing, _nothing_. A figurehead for some raw, weak place in him, nothing more. He couldn't act on this deep-rooted, boyish obsession; it would destroy him, destroy his plans—

Unless… He paused. Unless it purged him of these vulnerable emotions and left him clean, clean like he'd once been. Unless sating his want would allow him to focus on what mattered most.

Indulgence. He hated it in others; finding its potential in himself sickened him. But it would end this in-between life he'd been thrust into when he'd chosen his new intern. End it at last. The unfamiliar, nameless pain of emotions would disappear as quickly as it had come.

He packed the atomizers into his briefcase. There was enough to last him a year or so in those twelve small canisters, so long as he kept his doses small and concentrated. The last shipment would arrive soon, but he had no need for any more of the blue-petalled poppies. With Falcone behind bars, it would be best to simply destroy the final delivery once it came.

As he left the house, he didn't even look behind him. He would waste no time on emotional qualms, not when they were eating away at the rest of his world. His duty here was over; there was no need to look back.

A shadow detached itself from the graffiti-covered walls as he passed, following him as he headed purposefully for the station. He heard the footsteps echoing his own before he had gone much farther, and quickened his pace ever so slightly, the sound of his own shoes on the concrete dead and empty.

"Hey, buddy."

Jonathan kept walking, eyes on the sidewalk before him.

"What's in the case, pal? Guy like you isn't born skinny like that. You have some smack on you, don't'cha?"

The streets were empty; Jonathan was in a particularly malignant mood. An idea came to him, leisurely and beautiful and fatal.

Well, why not?

He took a few steps further, then stopped sharply and turned to face the burly ruffian, a brave cruelty swelling in him.

"Why don't you see for yourself?"

The piggy man's yellowish eyes narrowed in confusion. He was clearly perplexed by the unusually eager acquiescence coming from his prey. Jonathan held up the case and unlocked it, holding it up with an almost childlike pride so that the other man could see the neatly-packed contents.

"What the hell are those? Nobody packs their big H like that." The thug poked a meaty finger in the canisters' direction.

"They certainly don't," Jonathan replied coolly, in his affable therapist's tone. He took one of the canisters from its resting place and held it up. "Because this isn't heroin."

"_Wha-?_"

Before the would-be mugger could react, Jonathan sprayed a short, brisk quantity of the toxin into the other's face, taking care not to breathe himself. He'd managed to build up a slight immunity to the poison during his extensive work, but without his mask, an undue surplus could just as easily debilitate him as anyone else.

The thickset man coughed and struggled for breath in the noxious cloud. Jonathan watched him with calm familiarity. He could almost predict the symptoms as they appeared—neuromuscular spasms, cardiac arrhythmia, a panic attack, and, finally, the augmentation of the subject's personal phobias to startlingly realistic levels.

The thug screamed in raw terror, arms flailing helplessly as he stumbled away from some unseen nightmare.

Giddy with victory and satisfaction, Jonathan murmured, "Perhaps this will make you think twice about trying to take someone else's medicine next time."

Another raw scream was his only answer. Jonathan glanced at his watch and sighed. He would have loved to linger, but his train would be arriving soon, and only a few trains had routes that made stops near Arkham. Sadly, he would have to hurry.

* * *

Author's Note

Heh heh…that Crane. He's still got 'it,' despite his momentary softening in Chapter 8. Sorry this is (yet again) a belated posting; my friends and I went out to a Friday screening of _Corpse Bride_ and I had no chance to post. Apologies!

**Azina Zelle** – I devoured your new chapter! _C'est_ delicious. Please keep writing…pleeeease.

**crazedPeanut** – Heh, I liked that line too. It's like when a shark smells blood in the water. Crane's just like, 'Aha, oh really?' And Darcy's like, 'Errr, yeah. I am afraid of the dark.' The beginning of a terrifying relationship.

**Dot** – Heehee, I'm glad someone besides me got my little Crane's Addiction jest. Me and my stupid humor.

**Dr. E.Vance2** – You bet your top-notch writing skills that her achluophobia's going to show up in later chapters! (rubs hands together and sniggers evilly)

**Eccentric Banshee** – That's a very plausible alternate ending. _Jonathan Crane turned on the lights just long enough for her to make it into the cell, then turned them off and shut the door and walked away like nothing happened…_ Mwahaha. Definitely brother-ish behavior, I agree. Dream jackpots are _always _a good thing. I had one once, where I was at a party and I was talking about Cillian Murphy and all of a sudden, he popped out of nowhere, and I was totally humiliated because I had just been gushing about him. So I stammered out an apology and he was like, "It's absolutely all right," and we ended up making out somewhere. Yay.

**Hellish Yet Shell-less Peanut** – Ah, Pillsbury. (scarfs cookie) Yum. Thank you. Anyways, my story will cover his descent into madness, his escape from Arkham, and a _little bit _of post-_Batman Begins._ Not much though. It gets very dark. Literally. Please keep reviewing! I loved hearing from you.

**Hikyaku** – Jane's Addiction, the band _Crane's_ Addiction, being his obsession with fear. It's okay if you don't get it. It's probably too lowbrow. As I said above, my sense of humor is still stuck on a carpet square in a kindergarten class.

**Jonathansgirl18** – Here it is, just for you: _Mike walked into Jonathan's office to get a pen. Before he could react, a lanky figure dropped from the ceiling and pinned him to the ground. 'Mwahahaa!' A familiar voice cackled. Mike tried to scream, but a lethal plastic fork stabbed into his back before the sound could leave his mouth. He died instantly, of course._

**Jumana** – I love Azina Zelle's stuff too. Her Crane is downright creepy and basically everything I aspire to make my own Crane be.

**Kagerou-chan** – Jane's Addiction rocks. I thought my idea of 'Crane's Addiction' was ridiculously funny. I was snickering obnoxiously about it all week.

**Karina of Darkness** – Late-night reviews are always fun to read; thanks for sharing. ;-)

**Mizamour** – Mr. Freeze is AWESOME. He's totally twisted and his reasoning is more crookedy than a crooked thing, but he has this tenderness to him…he's doing it all for his Nora…(sniff)

**Rachel** – I've never had my story called 'crack' before. Needless to say, I am flattered. :-) Plus, you're the first person to mention Ingram. Bless your soul.

**Skyler McAndrews** – Right behind you on the 'hot Crane-in-a-dark-cell' thing. Please keep the ideas coming.

**Valse De La Luna** – Argh, three APs. I can only begin to imagine. Only AP History and Chem for me! Hurrah.

**VampireNaomi** – I hope you get some sleep…it's okay, he's not real… :-D (hug)

Well, I love you all and I hope you keep reading…after all, **things come to a head (or at least prepare to come to a head) between Mike and Jonathan in Chapter 10. Much tension! **

Love and hugs,

Blodeuedd


	10. Be kinder to yourself

I dreamed I called you on the telephone

to say: _Be kinder to yourself_

but you were sick and would not answer

-from _For the Dead_ by Adrienne Rich

…

"It sounds good to me," Dr. Bannon remarked quietly, eyes thoughtful and abstracted over the white rim of her mug. "I think I did something similar for my application essays. It's stupid and chauvinistic, really, but they _do_ like to hear about issues like home and female psychology from their women."

Darcy smiled. "I've noticed that."

The older woman took a sip of her steaming coffee and swallowed, leaning against the office doorframe. "Are you thinking of working with families once you finish med school?"

"I don't know yet," Darcy replied, a sheepish smile spreading on her face as she looked down at her blank application as if it would give her an answer, "After _this_" her eyes raked in her sterile surroundings "it might be a welcome change, but I really don't know."

"Well, going back to school will certainly give you some time to think that one over." Dr. Bannon's lips quirked in amused remembrance, then her expression brightened. "You know what would give you a bit of an edge?"

"What?"

Dr. Bannon leaned in furtively. "Arkham's got a fair amount of prestige, you know. Not recently, but back in its glory days it was the best facility of its kind on the East Coast. Drop a few names. Ask Jonathan for a quote on your topic. I'm not sure how ecstatic he'll be to see you working on this during office hours, but if you catch him off his guard, he might give you something worth using."

Darcy almost laughed, but thought better of it when she realized she could see every detail of the exact disapproving expression her employer would adopt when he saw her hunched over a med school application in the middle of the day. If her mind's eye were any indication, he wasn't going to be in much of an accommodating mood, especially after their near-collision that morning.

"I'll try," she murmured soberly, trying to keep the bitter tang of her sudden insight out of her voice.

"I think you can pull it off," Dr. Bannon replied warmly, finishing her coffee, "He's being extraordinarily soft on you, you know."

"Really?" She could feel her eyebrows disappearing into her hairline.

The slight psychiatrist nodded. "He sure is. Last year's intern was spending his breaks crying in the bathrooms, and the one two years before that quit midyear. I don't know what she ended up doing with her life, but it wasn't psychiatry. I think Arkham turned her off the subject."

"Seriously?"

"Yes. So consider yourself lucky." Dr. Bannon examined her empty mug with a sardonic grin. "Oh, Crane. He's a prickly one, all right, but one of the brightest people I've ever—" She stopped abruptly and looked up the hall. "Here's your chance. Best of luck."

Darcy's first instinct was to tense, but she fought it back. _Be natural._ She bent over her work again as Dr. Bannon left, hearing the clocklike, measured tread of his feet on the linoleum as she tried to casually resume her work on the essay outline.

"Good afternoon."

"Good afternoon," she replied lightly without looking up, the defiant scratching of her pencil across the paper almost softening the cold stillness. The back of her neck prickled, as if she were ignoring a loaded pistol, not just a man.

The footsteps paused before her, continued, and then she could sense his presence hovering over her shoulder, his shadow falling vague and indistinct across the desk.

"I don't seem to recognize what you're working on, Ms. Crandell."

"No, Doctor. It's a—" Her voice quivered despite herself, but she forced herself to keep her pencil pressed to the paper. "—a-an application for one of the schools I'm applying to."

"I see they've given you an essay."

"Well—yes."

"What is the topic?" She could have been wrong, but it sounded like he was curious. Maybe she had some chance of surviving this.

"We're allowed to choose, actually, so long as it's 1,000 words."

"And you have chosen—?"

"The devaluation of motherhood and its psychological effects on children and the home." There was no reply. "I-it's sort of a double topic," she forced out lamely.

There was a pause from the shadow. Now or never. Darcy took a deep breath and let her words out in an airy rush.

"I was wondering if I could get a quote from you to use in the context of this essay, Dr. Crane."

_Please. Do something nice for me, for a change._

He left her shoulder and went to stand in front of the desk. She risked an upward glance, and was surprised by what she saw—he looked more than mildly surprised, as if she had just asked him to learn to speak fluent Cantonese in a day.

"I am neither a family counselor nor a child therapist. It is not particularly my field of expertise." He turned away from her, evidently thinking the conversation over, unlocking one of his cabinets and slipping an unfamiliar new briefcase inside before shutting it with a soft but final click.

"But you must have studied the subject at one point or another," Darcy replied, not knowing where she was receiving the idiot bravery to do so, "Or at least have seen the results in your patients here. Gilder speculated that few people can attain psychological maturity at all without a connection with the sense of futurity found through intimate association with a woman or a mother. Wouldn't most of the inmates fit that description? Mumford asserted that the devaluation of motherhood leaves children of both sexes cut off from the essential basis of all future commitments to cooperative functioning in the social framework."

Wordless, he faced her again, face empty, eyes and mouth still and adamant.

Taking a deep breath, she quoted, "'In repressing the mothering and nurturing impulses in the personality, the scientist has also lost the normal parental concern for the future life it cherishes. One hardly knows whether to characterize this attitude as innocence or fatalism; it certainly indicates—'"

"'—a failure to reach maturity,'" he concluded for her in a slow, thin voice, looking long and hard at her over the gleaming rims of his glasses. A dying ember of humanity in a mechanical man. "Yes. I've studied the books and articles in the past. I haven't thought about—their implications or theories for quite some time. But, given a day or two, I could provide you with an opinion, if you have such a _critical _need of it to augment your essay." The disdain had returned by his last sentence, but it seemed tempered somehow, subdued and lost behind some greater feeling.

Darcy realized that her palms were slick with sweat and she set her pencil aside hurriedly, folding her hands in her lap. Part of her wanted to leap up and hug him for finally caving in to normal human decency, but the majority of her reasoning told her that such a giddy action would only seem unnecessary and repulsive. A manic display of gratitude would merely suggest that her affections were extravagantly allocated—oh, God, now she was _thinking _like him.

"I trust that, as a student, you lack the finances to purchase a computer," Crane said suddenly, his flat, controlled voice jerking her out of the instant of mortified horror and thrusting her into an entirely new one.

Blood flooded her cheeks and she looked away. "Yes. I haven't bought one yet. I—probably won't buy one for a while."

"A handwritten essay," he proclaimed lazily, "will certainly not endear you to the admissions board. Especially one written in your haphazard script. There is a spare laptop computer in the file cabinet beside you that you may use to add a significant degree of erudition to what may well otherwise be an incomprehensible and obtuse work."

She took the blow quietly, chewing her tongue as her eyes bored holes in the stretch of ugly rug by his shoes. "Thank you," she mumbled, about as glowingly appreciative as a child who is given the gift of homemade socks for a birthday.

When she realized the doctor was doing her a favor in the quiet, double-edged way only he could, and looked up to thank him a little more eloquently, he and the stack of meeting agendas she'd made were already gone.

…

"Knock knock."

She looked up from her frustratingly imperfect thesis and cold, untouched lunch to see Mike in the doorway. Her insides froze, but she braced herself. _Nothing to be afraid of._

"Is the meeting over already?" She asked without interest, turning her pencil on its head and tapping it against the desk.

Mike shrugged. "It was wrapping up when I got a call I had to take and had to leave. By the time I finished, it was four, so I figured I'd come say hello. Haven't seen you in a while."

"You haven't," she agreed mildly, setting her pencil flat across her paper, eyes downcast.

"What's new?"

The voice drew her in, like moth to flame, as it always had. She thought of overcast skies and falling New England leaves and quick kisses under trees dark with rain, but gritted her teeth, boxed up the memory, and put it away.

"Not a terrible much. And you?"

"A certain reliable source of mine who's privy to these sorts of things says that the board of directors has been talking about next year. Says that they have a lot of plans for Arkham, some new directions for us to go in. And that they're considering me to become the next head." His features were bright with suffused, stifled joy, and Darcy absently remembered what Sheila had said about him back in late September.

"—I guess a lot of people are giving me credit for the donations Arkham's been receiving this year," Mike was saying in a buttery, self-satisfied voice, "and—"

"But Dr. Crane is the Asylum's head," Darcy blurted quietly without thinking, her voice shriller and more dissonant than she expected. She wanted to swallow the words the instant they left her mouth.

Mike looked at her as if she were crazy. Or stupid. She remembered that look. From the parties at Dartmouth where she'd spoken out of turn, from the times when she'd raised her hand in classes and contradicted his answers, from that pounding-heart moment when she had told him that she didn't feel the same anymore.

"Darce…" The condescending, mature voice hadn't changed either. "Just because you're _working_ for Ichabod doesn't mean you have to defend him when his back's turned. He seemed like he was off to a good start, but things have changed. We've all noticed. He's getting too involved with the city's politics and problems, and the board's become aware of that. They're letting him go in June."

Inexplicably, something in her burst, snapped, broke. Maybe it was hearing that voice again, maybe it was the superior attitude, maybe it was just Mike himself; her blazing rage couldn't be for Crane's sake alone, she knew. "They're _firing _him—!"

"Yes. It's getting to be too much for him. It's been unusually rough this year, and most heads don't last for more than a couple of years anyway. This stuff burns you out fast."

"Not him," Darcy replied, almost laughing madly as she thought of a weary Crane staggering to the ground with exhaustion, the thrill of sheer, vehement disagreement running silvery-hot in her brain, "_Not him_."

"Look," Mike said, growing impatient, "You barely even know the man. I'm beginning to think you don't want this for me—that you're not happy to hear—"

"I don't," she retorted, standing to her feet, "I don't and I'm not. You know what? _I don't_ want you to get this job. I told you I'd had enough of you over a year ago, Mike Laramie. I meant it. Leave me alone."

"I was the one who _offered_ you this internship—" Mike began, voice low and livid.

"—and Jonathan Crane was the one who actually gave it to me," she interrupted, "I don't need your help. So call it even. Leave him alone. Leave _me_ alone. I don't need you to—to tell me how to think and act. I'm not one of your _patients_, Mike."

The bruised silence between them was broken again by one of the inmates on the floor above as he let out a keening, crossbreed cry that was half-scream, half-sob, animal and alone. Dr. Crane entered the room not long after, but his appearance was not the cold, unexpected jolt it usually was. He set his papers aside and took in the quiet and chill with unblinking, scathing eyes.

Darcy knew he saw. He saw the vein rising in Mike's neck, the tension of her own stiff, defensive stance, the awkward angle at which the pencil had been set down on the desk, like a declaration of war between them.

"Dr. Laramie," he began evenly after a second's analysis, "I believe that I have already requested that you refrain from visiting upon Ms. Crandell during office hours. It is clearly a source of agitation and also disrupts the agenda I've laid out for her—and, as a result, my own. I will not ask again. Please allow her to work in peace."

Mike looked between the two of them, face dark, eyes leaden but undefeated. "You pompous son of a bitch," he snapped at Dr. Crane, voice shaking with long-suppressed loathing, "_I can't believe you_. Darcy and I know each other; what we discuss is our own business. How dare you—"

"I know she doesn't want you here," Crane interrupted smoothly, nonchalantly stacking his papers with a diffident apathy. Again Darcy felt like there was something breaking loose from his caged eyes, something that shone through as he returned his gaze to the other psychiatrist. "I advise you respect her wishes and leave."

"You're the one who'll leave," Mike ground out, bearing stiff and rigid. Darcy felt a terrified inner smile tug at her; she knew how much he hated to be treated with contempt or—worse—contempt and unconcern. "You're on your way out, Crane, and everyone but you knows it. I visited your new patient, Victor Zsasz, the other day, the one that some assistant D.A. keeps calling about. I thought I'd see for myself. And here's my evaluation—_I think he's sane_." His smile grew wolfish, vindictive, triumphant, when Crane didn't respond. "I'll bring this in front of the board. A serial killer, sure, but the man belongs in Blackgate, Crane. Not here. You've made a mistake."

Dr. Crane drew a deep breath that did not tremble in the least. "I'm not one for making mistakes, Dr. Laramie," he replied in a strange, fiercely ecstatic tone that Darcy had never heard before, a voice so low and vibrant that it seemed to come from another man altogether. "You see, I realized that Zsasz was sane, even before I testified as an expert witness for the defense at his trial. It is no error, no _chance_, no 'mistake' on my partthat he is here.

"In fact, once you hear my reasoning, I'm sure you'll understand." His words were systematic but merry, like a cat toying with prey. "Return to my office this evening at eight o'clock before we close and we can discuss today's conversation. Clearly, you harbor some resentment and suspicion, and I am quite willing to openly address both—in extensive detail, if that is what you wish." There was some tangible, untrustworthy dark pleasure left lingering in the air afterward, and Mike was not wholly unaware of it.

"Eight o'clock?" He repeated warily.

Dr. Crane only nodded, eyes shining as if he were about to deliver the punch line of some fine joke. "It is my aim not to subject Ms. Crandell to anymore of this absurdity and indignation. This is a personal matter. We can settle it between the two of us."

Mike nodded slowly, reluctantly, like a puppet. "I suppose." Anger subdued by the prospect of delay, he left without another word.

Dr. Crane dropped his eyes to the floor for a moment, something very like a smile on his face, mouthing words too softly for Darcy to hear. All of him seemed possessed by a sudden glee, unexpected and alien.

"What did you say?" She asked, after mustering up the courage to do so.

He looked up, shook himself. "Light travels at a speed of 300,000 kilometers per second," he remarked lightly, voice distant and almost quivering with delight, "Quite slowly, really, in the grand scheme of things. It takes years for light from distant stars to reach our eyes here on earth. Ergo, it is very much possible for us to see the light of some stars that have disappeared thousands of years ago. –Goodbye, Darcy. It is nearly four-thirty, and I have an appointment to attend."

Author's Note

Hello, all. I'm braving a monstrously painful splinter in my finger to bring you this post, so enjoy.

**ACleverName** – Thank you for your honest and insightful assessment of this work. Your review was very sophisticated and well-put, and I can't wait to see what your actual writing is like. Thanks again!

**Azina Zelle** – I owe my officious-sounding knowledge of the fear toxin to my DK Batman guide, to give credit where credit is due. Jonathan's mother most likely won't make a return, but she has been sticking in my head for a while, so we shall see. I'm a little intimidated by how masterfully you handled her in your story, to be honest. Good luck on the new story!!

**Valse De La Luna** – Thank you. AP classes_ are_ hell, but I'm a college whore and will do anything to improve my resume. ;-)

**Dr. E. Vance** – Eight stories? Are you mad? Even _I_ can't multitask like that, and I'm a bloody overachiever. Step away from the computer, child! (pause to consider) Nah, keep writing, please.

**Eccentric Banshee** – Oh, I _love_ Fuse, it's okay you mixed the two up. Anyway, I can't believe Bruce talks to you. (glares pointedly at Jonathan) Some people _just don't talk at all._

Jonathan: I do talk to you. Tell me about your mother.

Me: You never talk to me.

Jonathan: Bring me more donuts and coffee and I'll be open to negotiation.

Me: You've eaten enough already. You're supposed to be dead skinny.

Jonathan: (eyebrow raises) Don't make me come over there.

Me: (ulp) Okay. The Krispy Kremes are in the fridge and you know how to make the coffee. And Banshee's giving out some cupcakes too, I think.

Jonathan: Very well. I am appeased. For now. (resumes reading Baudelaire and other dark stuff)

Yeesh. You can tell who's wearing the pants in this couple. I'm partial to vanilla, by the way, but I can do chocolate too. ;-)

**hornofgondor2** – _Corpse Bride_ was sweet. Not the greatest Tim Burton stuff ever, but I did cry at the end. Then again, I cry over everything, so it's not a huge point to make. :-) And you?

**Skyler McAndrews** – Rest assured that more is on its way!

**Karina of Darkness** – Don't worry about 'weeny' reviews. I like those too. Sometimes one needs a big fudgesicle and sometimes they just want a little sugar cube to keep them going. You rock my socks too. Yes, I've read _Scarecrow: Year One_ and love it. :-D

**VampireNaomi** – You raised the question of when _Dark My Light _ends. Here is my answer, as best as I can explain at this point in time: it runs through the events of _Batman Begins_ and ends about six months thereafter. In short, I think you have at least ten more chapters to go, if all goes according to plan. (evil cackle)

**SpadesJade** – I'm sorry if I confused you there. The exact phrase was: 'Amy would have remarked upon** Crane's **surliness but, fortunately, his intern lacked the authority to further perpetuate that similarity.' I can't imagine her being surly either. :-) Crane would be a different, far more twisted man if that were the case. Hmm (glances around) a lot of people are comparing my story to a drug—is that good? ;-D

**Kagerou-chan** – Between you and me, I want Crane to go crazy too. Hehe. So happy to see you updated your story by the way! Anyways, I did mean to put 'doffing' in Chapter 9. It makes sense that he would be removing his doctor's coat before leaving, not putting it on. Yum! Tea! My fave! (gulps)

**Jonathansgirl18** – Glad you enjoyed the little vignette I wrote for you. No one will ever know how Jonathan got on the ceiling, but I do particularly enjoy your idea of him swinging from some bizarre art-nouveau lighting fixture and then dropping like some sort of twisted geek-tiger onto an unsuspecting Laramie.

**Not Human** – Yay! Thank you. If you read this far, I love you even more!

I love you all so, so much. **Chapter 10** will bring you **the long-awaited showdown between Crane and Laramie.** Place your bets in your reviews, ladies and gentlemen, and do so with haste and in plentitude. Because I like lots of reviews—er, bets. Whatever.

Love,

Blodeuedd

p.s. Mucho thanks to the wonderful 'Motherhood' section of _A Woman's Encyclopedia of Myths and Secrets_ for the information on Gilder and Mumford that Darcy mentions to Crane in this chapter. Very insightful, yes?


	11. But everything is all askew tonight

But everything is all askew to-night,—

As if the time were come, or almost come,

For their untenanted mirage of me

To lose itself and crumble out of sight,

Like a tall ship that floats above the foam

A little while, and then breaks utterly.

-from _On the Night of a Friend's Wedding_ by Edwin Arlington Robinson

…

The light began to falter at around four o'clock for most parts of Gotham City, as the sun sank into the west and painted the buildings with runnels of gold. Streetlights buzzed to life and burned their false, electric bronze into the night, aloof to the scenes of misery beneath. But since the sun never truly rose in the Narrows, the decline was twice as swift and twice as tangible. Blank-eyed residents struggled through the gathering gray and cold, heading home to their untended apartments and broken homes. Sunlight was alien to them; they could not miss what they had never felt.

Jonathan Crane ate the hours like a starving animal. _Tonight._

The idea of what he was about to do was too terrible and beautiful to look at in its full. It was the final nail in the coffin of his sanity, something he both looked toward and feared. But, alternately delighted and horrified as he was, he still couldn't look directly at it either way. Like an eclipse, he could only watch from the corner of his eye and be content to wait.

He went through the remainder of his day like an automaton, suddenly numb. Even the cowering and cringing of his patients did little to amuse or move him. In compare with what was to come, their fear was only a tormenting promise. Not enough. Once it had been enough, but not now. Not tonight.

When a lull came, in the five-minute intervals between appointments, he wondered why he was doing this. For himself, or for her.

_For _me. _I do this for me._ Once he was through with Laramie, he could surmount anything. The symbolic victory would return his mind to the affairs at hand, continue him on his way. The tasteless idea of sating his nagging memories, the idea that had come so inconveniently in his derelict childhood home, seemed vastly unnecessary now. He was going to execute this one extravagance and he would never want for another again.

At a quarter to eight, Jonathan returned to his office.

She was still curved over the desk, pencil dancing furiously across the piece of paper before her. He watched her for a moment, then cleared his throat.

"It's nearly closing time, Ms. Crandell," he remarked, "If you are not going to be of any practical use to the Asylum at this point, I advise you take your work home."

She did, packing hurriedly and leaving, murmuring a goodbye that went unanswered as she shut the office door behind her, locking him into the silence alone.

He moved with the slow, gentle precision of a dying man towards the window, looking into the hellish mass of daily pain and ugly hate below him like a mirror. Someday, someday soon, it would all be gone. And there would be only him, only one, laughing at the dead faces that had once laughed at him.

He sighed—infinite patience masking insatiable hunger—and went to the cabinet where he'd stowed his supplies earlier that day. He took the briefcase out, but didn't open it; he liked the promise it had while unopened. The smooth leather was like cold flesh beneath his trailing finger as he set it on the desk.

The seconds ticked by. He sat and waited.

Jonathan Crane was accustomed to waiting. He remembered one day, in his youth, when he had come home with a bloody nose and knees. The tears had stung his eyes as his mother tended his wounds with unusually lucid attention.

"Tomorrow I'll wait outside the school and walk you home," she'd promised him over the overture to _La Traviata_, stifling a racking cough with the back of her arm.

Later that night, he had overheard her talking with the man he thought of as his father after dinner.

"—the other children," his mother was saying, voice muffled through the cheap wallpaper, "I'll finish cleaning the bathroom early and go pick him up. It's not far—"

"Don't be stupid, Eleanor," the man mumbled. His voice had always been slurred in the evenings; Jonathan had thought it normal for men to speak like that after dinner until he had finally left home. "He's a grown boy—can take care of himself. Besides, you belong here."

She'd muttered something back and then they were silent again, as if they had never spoken at all.

Jonathan refused to believe his mother had been dissuaded from the idea; the thought of walking home with her had been so inconceivably exciting. He'd remembered every time he'd envied the other children, the children with their mothers in the pretty floral-print dresses who would gather outside the schoolyard and chat together as they waited for the last bell of the day to ring.

So he had bounded out to the front of the school that afternoon. His classmates, with their teases and taunts, seemed miles behind. They would never catch up. He was safe. His mother would be there, under the scraggly trees, wearing a bright and beautiful dress she'd never worn before—

But when he had examined the mass of women assembling in the weak shade, she was nowhere to be found.

He had waited in the schoolyard for nearly two hours before he decided it was time to go home.

Yes, waiting was no particular effort or oddity for him.

Eight o'clock.

"Dr. Crane? You wanted to see me?"

Jonathan almost didn't want to look up and see Mike Laramie standing there, for fear that the other man would disappear and this would all be some desperate imagining.

"Yes. Please have a seat."

The flame-haired doctor slowly obeyed, glaring at his hands as he waited for Jonathan to speak. "It's late," he grumbled, "This could have waited until tomorrow, Crane."

What audacity. The man really had no respect for atmosphere. But Jonathan was too drunk on expectations to take significant offense.

"I believed that I should address your accusations," he replied in a saccharine voice that unnerved even himself. "It simply could not wait."

"I'm not in the mood. Tell me what you wanted to tell me about Zsasz and get it over with," Mike snapped, running a hand furiously through his hair, "You're not going to buy my silence on this."

His irritation was delectable. Jonathan felt himself smile and allowed it. This was worth grinning like a fool for. "Ah, good. I was beginning to worry that neither one of us had scruples left. But very well, I can cut directly to the chase, if you'd like." He took off his glasses and set them carefully on the folded newspaper from that morning, soundlessly pulling the briefcase towards him across the desk. "Truth be told, I'm a degenerate and dissolute man, just as you so perceptively speculated. I've entered into a deal with some very human devils—one Carmine Falcone among them. You may have heard of him; he was a pretty weighty person in this city before his run-in with 'the Batman.'

"Yes, I've been testifying on behalf of his entirely sane stooges and paying their way into Arkham's cells so that they need not face a lifetime in our nation's penitentiaries. All in return for a mess of extraordinarily complex payoffs on a number of levels. It's nothing, really."

Surprisingly, Laramie didn't flinch. "You're just screwing with me. Tell me the truth."

"I'm not fond of redundancy; I believe I just did." Jonathan stood to his feet and walked towards the light switch behind Laramie, slipping on the mask as he did so, disappearing behind the rough canvas and familiar sadism.

The other man tried not to convey his obvious unease, but finally whirled around in his chair to face Jonathan. He must have only caught a glimpse of his masked superior before the room was plunged into darkness.

"What sort of fucking game is this, Crane? Where the hell are you?"

In response, Jonathan only crept spiderlike into the shadows, cradling a canister of fear toxin by his side. Vanishing into the places where only his voice, coarse and chill with satisfaction, could be heard. Laramie stood roughly to his feet ands stumbled after him.

"Where'd you go, you bastard?"

"Name-calling. How unprofessional of you, Mr. Laramie. I'm being completely serious. Why else would I go to such obscene lengths to entertain your accusations? You wanted me to reveal myself as a corrupt, tormented individual, didn't you? You'll get your wish tonight. _Here I am._" He rose from his latent crouch in the nebulous dark, shoving Laramie's unoccupied chair aside with a careless, lovely crash.

The shadow of bigger man leapt back at the sudden sound, startled. "Turn the goddamn lights back on, Crane!"

"And now you respond to my admission of guilt with mere disbelief," Jonathan remarked dryly, shaking his masked head in despair, "I'm disappointed. Really, I am. I expected more of you."

"You're crazy, Crane. I'm calling the guards."

Jonathan heard the taller man heading in the general direction of the phone, awkward and staggering like a wounded animal.

"Don't be ridiculous," he called back, voice lilting with mockery, "They're all at my beck and call. Funny what a substantial increase to a man's otherwise minimal salary can do."

"Quit _hiding_, you coward. You damn coward."

Jonathan's heart only pounded faster to hear Laramie fumbling blindly about in the dark, trying vainly to find him.

"I'm no coward," he breathed softly, firmly, into his mask as he raised the atomizer and leveled it towards where the other man's vague outline stood. For a moment, the pale ghost of compassion in him trembled.

_No. Don't—_

But the trembling made his finger only press down all the harder. A short emission of fear toxin entered the air, thickening the darkness and slowly destroying everything he'd ever known.

Laramie coughed and choked, struggling to speak. "What the hell was that, Crane?" His voice was defiant, but Jonathan knew his own toxin well enough to know it was already in Laramie's system, singing in his weak blood.

"An excellent question. Where am I, Laramie?" He inched closer to the indefinite silhouette, giddy, daring, until he stood directly behind him. "I'm everywhere."

"Stay away! Get away from me!" The man lashed out instinctively with a fist, missing Jonathan by a hair. Jonathan stepped back, surprised for an instant. None of his patients had ever lashed back like this before.

But it was nothing he couldn't handle. He forgot his misgivings and continued to stalk his prey.

"Stay back!" The sound of his breathing was like wet cloth being ripped apart. Like raw, escalating panic.

"This discussion isn't over, Mr. Laramie. I don't intend to end this any earlier than I must."

"Go—get away!"

"Not quite yet. You see, I've harbored my own antipathy towards you for quite some time myself."

He saw Mike illuminated in the dim light from the window and slid towards him, appearing so suddenly from the nothingness that the other man cried out and fell back against the wall, shaking hands raised in piteous defense.

"No—no— oh God, it's awful—" The words dwindled into a sob.

"I must admit I rather detest you," Jonathan crowed, "Your favor-currying, your flattery, your snide superiority. And your attempts at stealing _my_ patients—simply unforgivable. What I would give to see what you're seeing now, Laramie. Have you gone mad yet? Let me know when you do."

"Please—stop it—stop them—n-no—"

Jonathan felt the mirth and good humor in him disappear completely. "I'm not going to stop, Mike. Not until I wring your fears out of you and leave nothing left. The bright young future of Arkham interred...perhaps even at his own asylum, if I pull the right strings… I'm sure it will give our humble institution the publicity you're such a proponent of. Perhaps I'll even be the lucky one to have you for a patient."

"_No!_" The shout tore the pristine hush.

"Please, Mike. You'll wake the inmates with these hysterics. And since they shall soon be your peers and they are known to develop and hold grudges rather easily, I advise you to keep the extraneous noise to a minimum. Besides, this is far more painful for me than it is for you."

He thought of Ian Worth. He saw a knife. He heard the cries for help. He felt the cold wet earth, spinning obliviously beneath him. He saw childhood dying on a warm spring night.

"Yes," he said to himself over Laramie's swelling cries, "Far more painful indeed."

* * *

Author's Note

Argh, writing this at midnight on the deserted bottom story of my creaky old house was not exactly fun. I kept jumping and shivering like a complete ninny. But I suppose I really must start holding up to my readers' expectations. I _did_ select 'Horror' as a genre for this and it's 'Horror' I shall try to give.

**ACleverName** – Yes, the reviews _are_ quite fun to read through. My readers are sooo lovable. (hands out warm cookies and mugs of cocoa)

**Arisa Mieko** – Heh, you were one of the few to notice that Crane is finally calling Darcy by her first name like an—ordinary—human—being! YAY! (dances giddily, then notices everyone is staring) You're welcome to, er, join in the happy dance, by the way…

**Dot** – Maniacal spiel is a beautiful, underrated thing. :-)

**Dr. E. Vance** – You are definitely as good if not better than me. You even picked up on my chapter mix- up error! And I didn't even think of being Crane for Halloween. That's so unbelievably cool.

**Eccentric Banshee** – No kidding; my little brother just bought the _Nimrod_ album. He's ten years old and this is his first CD. So cute. Isn't he, Jonathan?

Jonathan: He's noisy, I'll give him that.

Me: Well, little brothers are like that.

Jonathan: I wouldn't know. I was an only child. (returns to reading what appears to be a copy of _The Importance of Being Earnest_; there are a few beats of silence before he chuckles to himself)

Me: Did I just hear you laugh?

Jonathan: Er, no. No. I never laugh. It's a physical impossibility. You see, I have a special sort of a larynx which prohibits laughter or even miscellaneous giggles, guffaws, or, um—

Me: (increasingly suspicious) Are you _really_ reading Oscar Wilde?

Jonathan: Of course! Why would I not be? It's recommended reading—

Me: I see. (creeps up silently behind Crane's massive armchair and snatches book away with practiced elder-sister ease; rips off fake _Earnest_ cover, revealing a treasury of works by Edgar Allen Poe) Aha! So you were reading _Poe!_ I _knew_ that this copy of _The Importance of Being Earnest_ looked unusually thick!

Jonathan: (uncomfortable) So?

Me: (triumphant) You were supposed to be reading _happy_ stuff, like Banshee and I told you to!

Jonathan: (reasonable, regaining composure) But you forget that, in your twisted and utterly frivolous tale, my character is purportedly a troubled and tormented soul. To achieve the depths of complete depravity achieved by your vision of me—which is completely blown out of proportion, might I add—I must immerse myself in such dark poetry and prose at all hours of the day and night.

Me: (won over) Point. (realizes she's been hoodwinked) But—no! You're supposed to be reading good stuff! Here's your punishment. (hands him copy of _Pride and Prejudice_, he recoils as if it is made of poison) Read this after you finish _The Importance of Being Earnest_—the _real_ one. (turns back to Eccentric Banshee) Yum! Grapefruit! I love it. And the Long Review Award goes to you (yet again, I believe) this week, by the way.

**hornofgondor2** – Join the pathetic weepy filmgoers' club. :-D

**Jonathansgirl18** – Yay! I got my splinter out! All is well. There, there, Harry. I'm sorry you were born with overactive hormones.

Harry: (sobs wordlessly and runs to cry in the corner)

Ugh. There is _no_ talking to that boy.

**Karina of Darkness** – Um, yes. I think I achieved your wishes. :-D

**Melismata Maiden** – _J'aime_ e.e. cummings and Rimbaud. I haven't read anything of yours yet, which is terrible of me, but I love your profile. It's quite humorous!

**PhoenixFlame6** – Wow, thanks. And as for that tantalizing 'swan bed' image…don't give me ideas. ;-)

**Valse De La Luna** – Glad that you think Crane's still clinging to his character. (whew) I was worried for quite some time that he was gradually losing it, as most evil characters do in my hands…

**VampireNaomi** – Hmmm…you'll see how Darcy reacts to Crane's evil _very _soon. As in 'next-chapter' soon. :-)

Y'all go out and buy _Batman_ on DVD this Tuesday! In my heart, I'm paying for each and every one of them…

**Chapter 12…hmm, what to say. Let's just leave it at this: we learn why one should never ever reenter an insane asylum right before closing time. **

Hugs, kisses, and general affection,

Blodeuedd


	12. And that thing screams

But it has no feeling. As the metal, is hot, it is not,

given to love.

It burns the thing

inside it. And that thing

screams.

-from _An Agony. As Now._ by Imamu Amiri Baraka

…

She could see the rough draft of her application in her head, sitting pathetically forgotten on Crane's desk by the paperweight. Inches away from his clipboard and cup of pencils and pens. Illuminated by the strangely full-bodied moonlight. Mocking her across this distance.

Night had fallen with unusual speed. A cold wind from the Atlantic tugged her hair loose into tangled knots and made the sickly trees along the sidewalks murmur to themselves like ghosts of concern. She glanced between her waiting car and the last few winking lights of the Asylum behind her, torn.

"Better get going," the night watchman grumbled at her from his booth, folding his arms over his dark windbreaker and glancing up the darkening streets, "I'm no babysitter."

_Not without that draft. It took me two hours._

"Sorry—I forgot something. I need to go back inside."

"Arkham's closing for the night. Once the last few shrinks leave, we're locking up."

"Just give me five minutes. Please." She held up her plastic ID, as if it would explain everything.

"I wouldn't go back into that freak show at night for a million bucks, myself," he told her over the rising wind, "–But go ahead. Your funeral."

She ignored the comment and started walking toward the dark building, keeping close to the dim lights that lined the walkway, trying to forget the hungry gloom that lay beyond their feeble glow.

The lights were all still on when she entered, but the halls were deserted. The sick hush was broken only by the footsteps of a passing doctor, on his way out. As they passed each other, a chilling screech from the stories above made both of them hesitate and smile nervously sideways at each other.

Crane's office wasn't terribly far. She found the door and stopped before it as she fumbled in her purse to find the key he had given her.

Something made her hang back before unlocking the door; a sense that the room was somehow full when it shouldn't have been, like the beating of a cold corpse's heart.

"Stop scaring yourself, idiot," she muttered to herself, twisting the key in the lock with a frustrated anger and pushing the door open.

The room was blacker than the backs of her eyelids, darker than moonless water. The lights of the corridor didn't illuminate more than a few feet of the floor before her. It made her so jumpy that she thought she heard something in the lightless office hiss in surprise, but forced herself to close her ears to the imaginary sound. Just a few steps in and a few more out. She would grab the papers and go.

"_Help_…"

That was not her imagination. Her throat closed up and she took a step back, hand fumbling insanely for the doorknob. Was one of the inmates loose? It was impossible. The security was foolproof. Completely and utterly infallible.

"_Help me_…"

It was Mike. She could barely see him, looking disheveled and destroyed in the night. He tried to walk toward her and stumbled, the glazed whites of his eyes bright with a sickly glow like insanity. Hands laced with swollen veins struggled to pull his trembling body toward her.

"Mike?" Darcy blurted, dropping to her knees, forgetting her initial panic, forgetting everything. "What are you doing in here? What's wrong?"

He shrank back from her, features twisting with raw, rabid horror. "No! Not you! _Don't come near me!_"

"Mike—" Where was Crane? He would know what to do. He would help. Mike must have—

"Stay _back!_" Spittle flecked his dry, trembling lips.

It was as if he didn't know who she was. Summoning up what bravery she could, she made a reach for his arm but he yanked it away from her, screaming as he tried to crawl away from where she knelt. Remembering her elementary training, she stayed where she was and spoke in a soft, inflectionless voice.

"Please, Mike, it's okay. It's all right," she murmured soothingly, extending a hand to him, "I'm here. It's all right."

"_Don't!_" His face grew even more distorted with a desperate rage. He tried to back away from her even more, disappearing into the darkness, but his breathing seemed suddenly labored and difficult. _Was he choking? Having a seizure?_

"Mike, let me help you. Please."

There was no sound from where he had vanished. The breathing had stopped. Stunned, unable to think clearly, she watched as a new figure detached itself from the stifling dimness, so freakishly proportioned that she faintly wondered if it were all a half-dazed phantasm. A mask concealed the skeletal shadow's face, apparently made of rough burlap.

"Mike—?"

"_No._"

There was a long, inhuman whisper of air, and something thick and chemical filled the room. Darcy struggled to rise from where she knelt, to escape the suffocating mist, but her efforts only left her lying paralyzed on the floor. For a few sluggish seconds, there was only a ringing in her ears, an ominous peace.

Then something—_everything_—seemed to quicken, to contort, to splinter. Her heartbeat pounded beneath her shuddering, papery skin, growing larger and larger until it seemed that that accelerating pulse was all that was left of her. Her shell of a body felt light, helpless, fragile.

She could die like this.

The darkness came, fully and truly, this time. The darkness to which her eyes couldn't adjust, the darkness of her nightmares, the inescapable black that hid her from herself and laid her open to every niggling fear. Pressing down on her unseen ribs, smothering her heart and filling her mouth like water. Her eyes grew wide and hunted for freedom for a while, then gave up and shut tight as she gathered herself close, unable to move.

But closing her eyes gave her no solace or escape. It only left her defenseless. The walls spoke and dark, nameless things trailed over her body. Her head throbbed like a wound as she twisted away from hidden predators, hidden fears, hidden traces of deeper black.

Despite the fiendish life about her, she was alone. Isolated. Lost. Knowing her utter solitude was the worst of all. Only her tears moved, as they squeezed out from under her eyes and slid into nothing. There was nowhere to run, even if she could. The dark would follow, rise up and swallow her like a wave, and drag her deeper. She struggled to remember to breathe, to remember her name, to remember what light was like.

She could only remember one thing.  
_"Come _on_, Darcy!" _

_Her chubby little child's body struggled to keep up with her cousin's longer strides. _

"_Slow!" She gasped out, vocabulary still unformed._

_Susan finally stopped halfway up the stairs and turned around to look down at the younger girl._

"_What's the matter?" She groaned, exasperated. _

"_Tired, Susan! Tired!" _

"_Well, come to my room and you can sit down."_

"_Doll?" _

"_Sure." Susan resumed her uneven, swift ascension of the stairs, Darcy puffing behind. _

_The upper story of the old house was musty; hot autumn sunlight shone through the dirty windows. Below, she could hear her mother and her aunt talking in loud, cheerful voices, and the smells of the Thanksgiving meal to come were thick and warm in the air. _

_Susan was already sprawled out on her bed when Darcy entered the room, paging through a magazine with a lethargy made even more extreme by preadolescent dramatic flair. _

"_Took you long enough."_

"_Doll?"_

"_I don't play with my dolls anymore, dummy. They're in my closet." _

_Undaunted, Darcy ran over to the closet and switched on the light before opening the door. The narrow closet was chilly and lined with a multitude of old toys. Giggling, she reached for her favorite, a china doll with a lovely blue dress made of silk and tightly-curled red hair. _

_As her little hand closed over the doll's cold china face, the naked bulb overhead went out, and the door slammed behind her. Susan's snickers were muffled but unmistakable, coming from the other side of the door. _

"_Susan! _Susan!_" _

_There was darkness all around her, and the suddenness of its arrival was alarming. She hadn't been scared of the dark before. Nighttime was for sleeping; lights went out when one left the room; the teacher always dimmed the fluorescent lights for naptime. But the dark filling every corner of the cold little closet was something new and terrifying. Panic seized her, cold and paralyzing and poisonous. Her mind left her. She sobbed and screamed and fumbled for the doorknob, and had finally collapsed on the floorboards with a hollow thump, tears running down her face, too hoarse and shocked to scream anymore… _

A low, animal moan of remembering rose from what was left of her invisible carcass. Her teeth ached with the needling resonance, and she made herself smaller before the paralysis took hold of everything. The memory lingered resolutely in her head, blurring the lines of reality.

She was in the office—on the cold floor of the closet—Susan was outside—she was alone—heart battering itself against her thinning skin—head aching—vision twitching and unsure—she was a child—she was a woman—she was swallowed up by the cold night.

"Help," she whispered around her thick, disobedient tongue, sitting like a slab of meat in her throat.

The dark laughed. It laughed at her and her heart froze to hear the slow, rolling, cold sound coming from an unseen mouth, tainting the air.

"_Help you_," the dark mocked softly in a coarse, cruel voice that grated like a death rattle, "_Help you. After that scene? Pathetic_."

"Help," she mumbled again, unable to say anything else, afraid that the effort to form other words would tear her apart.

"_And who would help you? Laramie? He's dead, Darcy. I killed him. Too much of my medicine_."

She found the strength in her to twist away, burying her face in the crook of her frigid, trembling arm. The fact refused to register. Dead? What was dead and alive in this night? There was no difference. Only fear.

"_You should be grateful_," the voice hissed into her ear, "_He was such a trouble to you and me both_."

She nestled her face deeper, eyes stinging with tears and fright, trying to forget, trying to pay no heed to the unrelenting malice. This made the dark angry.

"_Look at me, Darcy. _Look at me!"

Long-boned hands gripped her, turned her over, forced her to look into yellowed-death eyes that smiled down at her out of the overwhelming darkness. She heard someone scream as if from miles away, and only numbly realized it was herself.

"_You stupid girl. Don't turn away. Why did you come back?_ Why?"

She thrashed and struggled to rise but couldn't. The eyes bore into hers like needles, ripping, slashing, hurting. Everything seemed to be closing in, locking her down, crushing her into the floor. She screamed again, tasting salty tears and bile, not knowing if anyone could hear.

"_Why couldn't you just leave?_" The voice demanded, rasping upon what was left of her sanity.

"I'm sorry," she whispered blindly, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry…" It hurt to speak—the words made her even more nauseous with fear—but she didn't know what else to do but to apologize, to beg for forgiveness and hope for escape.

The presence over her seemed to vacillate in an oddly familiar surprise. The only sound was her own rough breathing. She closed her eyes and waited for the end.

"Amy?"

She was too terrified by the bizarre respite to feel confused. When she opened her eyes again, the violent aura over her had disappeared. The weight had left her chest. Now, there was only the all-consuming dark, infinite, menacing.

A needle, a real needle, jabbed into her arm out of the black, and she flinched in unexpected pain.

"Go to sleep," the voice mumbled, sounding bewildered and weary, "Go to sleep, Darcy."

* * *

Author's Note

Sorry for the impromptu sabbatical last week! My weekend was ludicrously busy and Friday night unusually late. This chapter was also one of the most difficult to write so far. All of these elements combined created a busy and stressful week. But one of the things I _did_ do on Saturday of last week was participate in a debate regarding the Insanity Plea—suffice to say, a very ironic subject considering my current work in progress. Especially when talking about corrupt doctors being paid off to testify that defendants are criminally insane. ;-)

**ACleverName** – Yup, _exactly _1.2 seconds. :-D

**AngelLust12387** – Crane is my favorite character, too. Cillian is just…amazing. Glad you're enjoying reading this!

**Azina Zelle** – Wow! So many people are asking me if I'm a professional writer! I am so amazingly flattered. See my response to **Kagerou-chan** for the answer…

**Dr. E. Vance** – If you consider this following excerpt 'mushily romantic', you may want to refrain from reading this story any further: _Jonathan Crane gazed down into Darcy's soft dark eyes as they embraced in the moonlit rose garden. He knew he could hide it no longer—he was in love with every inch of her, he loved her heart and soul. "Jon," she protested softly, clinging to him, "We can't keep up this charade. We work together…" "I don't care," he whispered, kissing her sweet lips feverishly, "I don't care anymore." She kissed him back, pressing her face to his before pulling away to look up into his statuesque face. "I don't care either. I never have," she confessed in a quiet, velvety voice, "But Jon?" "Yes, my angel?" "Why are you dressed up in a Regency-era outfit?" He paused and glanced down at his rather unusual attire before responding slowly, "I—I don't know. Why are_ you_ wearing a gown?" She looked at her own rosy-pink Empire-waist dress with a bewildered curiosity. "I have no idea." _Haha, just kidding. I began this story with the priority of keeping Jonathan Crane in-character, and I will do my best. No overly romantic schmaltz. Maybe a little, but not too much. He's Jonathan bloody Crane, after all.

**Eccentric Banshee** – Glad you loved that line of Jonathan's when he's talking to Laramie about scruples. That's one of my favorites too.

Jonathan: (mumbling from behind his copy of _Emma_) Oh, come on, it's so absurdly cliché.

Me: I thought it was cute.

Jonathan: 'Cute?'

Me: Yes. (smiles sweetly and takes a big spoonful of the mint chocolate chip ice cream that Banshee gave her)

Jonathan: (perks up ever so slightly) What is that?

Me: (mouth full) Ice cream.

Jonathan: (intrigued but trying not to be) It's nearly November, you ridiculous fool. You don't eat ice cream in November.

Me: Well, I am. (takes another big scoop)

Jonathan: (disdainful) Only a true ignoramus would eat _ice cream_ in November. (pause) Ahem?

Me: What is it?

Jonathan: Can I—(mumblemumble)

Me: What?

Jonathan: Can I have—(more embarrassed muttering)

Me: (licking spoon) Have what?

Jonathan: Can I have some ice cream?

Me: Well, geez, all you had to was ask.

**hornofgondor2** – Party! (disco ball descends from ceiling) Woot woot! (does ridiculously outmoded dance moves) Come on, Jonathan! Dance with me!

Jonathan: (sits and stares at Blodeuedd like she's crazy)

**Jonathansgirl18** – Ah, autumn. One of my favorite seasons. Raking is not so much a favorite, though. ;-)

**Kagerou-chan** – I love you too! (hug) I actually _have_ been published: once, in a young poets' anthology. I won some sweet prize money and my work placed in the top ten poems for my age group. My family now has roughly a billion copies of said anthology floating around, and it's quite a delight to open any one of them and see my poem contained within. Otherwise, however, I have been very timid about submitting any other works to publishers or contests, especially my prose stuff. Ah, that Jonathan Crane line is one of my favorites in the movie too. I love how his voice seems so flat and emotionless at first, but is often overcome by his own fiendish glee as the story develops. That amusing little quality is one nuance I almost weekly strive to instill in my work, but it's tough. That Cillian! (shakes head)

**Karina of Darkness **– Awww, sorry you got cut off. Longer review next time? Laramie _does_ fail at life!

**Nightshade0020** – Thanks for keeping me posted. The story is going awesomely, by the way.

**No One Mourns the Wicked** – As many people here can attest, I _love_ receiving long, rambling reviews, so you are certainly welcome to leave them if you're in the mood. And regarding your question about the happiness-level of this story's ending…er…would I turn you off this story completely if I said, 'No, it gets a little happier and then goes right back to Dismalsville?' I love hearing from you (and your own writing is delish, by the way)! Please stay tuned.

**SpadesJade** – Fear not, I was never a cheerleader. In sixth grade, all my friends, like you, succumbed to the cheerleading craze, but I was content to sit by and volunteer to be the one working the video camera for all of the sixth-grade sporting events. Sure enough, I loved that job far more, and, one by one, all my friends dropped out of cheerleading within a matter of weeks. Hahaha. But I never said 'I told you so.' Not once. Sometimes it's the satisfied silence that is best.

**Valse De La Luna** –I've never made someone want to stay home on a Friday night! (happy dance)

**VampireNaomi** – The toes are curling! That's a good thing! (grins delightedly) And if you're not missing Mike…even better.

Again, apologies for the delay! I will try not to be so tardy with **Chapter 13**, **where Jonathan learns about how to dispose of a body and the downside of hiring morally corrupt security guards. **

**_And now a message to ALL OF YOU…._**

(lightning flashes, thunder rolls, as Jonathan's now-famous cackle echoes across MwahahaHAHAAAHAAAA! HuahahaHAAAAaaaahahahaha! _**Happy Halloween!** _MwahahAAAhaahohohooooHAAA! (cats screech and wolves howl as more thunder crashes)

Love,

Blodeuedd


	13. The grip of anguished stillness

Face-down; odor

of dusty carpet. The

grip of anguished stillness.

-from _Terror_, by Denise Levertov

…

The roaring adrenaline left him a rush, and sense returned to fill in the gaps.

Too sick and exhausted to turn on the lights, he tossed the atomizer away from himself and sank to the dark, unseen floor.

_Idiot._ He'd been an idiot. He'd acted impulsively. Careful—that's what he'd always been. Painfully careful. Now he had a dead man and an unconscious woman in his office. And nowhere to put them.

As he put his shaking hands to his head to halt the rising flood of frenzied thoughts, Jonathan wondered if this half-madness, this chilling consciousness, was what being a murderer felt like.

The ticking of the clock on his desk seemed unnaturally amplified in the syrupy dark. Time was running out. He had to act.

Standing, he stepped gingerly over where he knew Darcy's drugged body lay, roughly pulling the mask over his head as he walked to where the light switch waited. There were two switches there, feeling like knobs of bone in the dark; he flicked on only one, bathing the room in a soft, pallid light. Better to face the supple pastels of a dream than the harsh, delineating ink of a reality.

Not looking at the two still forms on the ground, Jonathan went to the gleaming black phone sitting on the far corner of his desk. Setting his mask down on the table, he picked up his glasses and put them back on, once more sliding the world into cold focus. He raised the smooth receiver to his ear and dialed the extension with practiced ease. As the phone rang, he noticed the mask's empty eye-holes were staring up at him, the crudely stitched mouth grinning with a mirthful malice. He turned over the mask and held it down with an angry fist, as if pinning down an animal.

"Hello?" Ingram's familiar, thunderous rumble filled the buzzing void of the line.

Jonathan bit back a vile oath and forced a casual drawl and drag into his unwilling voice. "Good evening, Mr. Valencia."

"Dr. Crane? It's nearly eight forty-five. Shouldn't you be home by now?"

"Oh—working late."

"I see." The deputy didn't sound convinced in the least.

"I—I have some boxes that I shall need assistance in moving to my car, and—"

_Ah, lovely. _And just when he had thought no further parallels to Amy could be drawn.

"—and I was wondering if I could possibly trouble you to send two of your men to my office to help me."

"No trouble at all," the sonorous voice replied, "We have seven in the surveillance room tonight anyway. Byrne ended up recovering from the flu in time to make his shift. I'll come down there myself and help you out."

"_No_," Jonathan burst out emphatically before he could stop himself, "—No. Your place is here." He choked on a brassy-false chuckle. "I couldn't—couldn't possibly—have the deputy of security running—frivolous errands for me. Absolutely out of the question. Are Thistle and Glass there?"

"Yes."

"They're the two newest, they won't be missed—send them."

There was a pause in which Jonathan could nearly smell Ingram's redolent suspicion. "Yes, Dr. Crane."

"They'll be back to you within the hour."

Another pause. "Yes, Dr. Crane."

"Thank you, Mr. Valencia. Have a good night."

The line was already dead in his hand. Jonathan hung up the phone and almost started wringing his hands before he stopped himself. Ingram Valencia was a danger to him—to everything. He would have to fire him for some petty issue before it was too late.

He went to the bookshelves lining his office, searching desperately for some distraction. Seizing a random book, he paged anxiously through it, eyes locking on nothing. Why had he given her a dose of the toxin? Why hadn't he left her alone? _Why had she come back? _

The fact that he had been so merciful toward her, a living witness to his illegal activity, was not nearly as disturbing as the fact that he had let himself see Amy in her again. Even in the height of his delighted attack of her fears, he had veered into the memories he had promised himself only days ago not to revisit. Was his state of depravation so far advanced already? He slammed the nameless book shut, closing his eyes and hating himself.

"Dr. Crane? You in there?"

Muscles seized, pulse raced. He put the book away and hurried to conceal the mask and toxin. The bodies—

"Who is it?" He called out shakily, cringing at the thought of physically dragging the deadweight bodies anywhere.

"Ingram sent us. Alexander Thistle and Robert Glass, sir, remember?"

"Oh." He could explain. He'd picked those two out himself; they were privy to the work going on in the hydrotherapy room. "Come in."

The two guards entered, one after the other. Neither blinked an eye at the motionless human beings on the floor.

"What're you up to now, doc?"

Jonathan thanked the god he'd never believed in for morally corrupt individuals. "The man is dead. He knew too much…." The pathetic cliché tripped off his tongue before he could find other words; the slip was testament to the chaotic state he was in. "We need to get rid of him before the others notice. The girl is unconscious. I—" What _was_ he going to do with her? Inter her? Maybe she_ was_ insane. But maybe she wasn't. "—am going to take her to her house." If she came to in bed, she would think it was a dream. At best, a feverish hallucination from being overworked. _You collapsed in the office, Ms. Crandell. It was the least we could do to return you home… _Yes, that would do. So long as she was out of his life for the time being.

"I can dump the guy," Thistle volunteered casually, wiping his blotchy nose. "I used to do heavy lifting in my old job."

Jonathan realized he'd never thought to inquire about the past occupations of Alexander H. Thistle and was glad of his ignorance. "Whatever it takes. And Mr. Glass? You'll assist me with—"

"With the dame?" Glass leered, "Of course, doc."

Disgusted, Jonathan resisted the urge to feel indignation on his intern's behalf. "Let's just finish this before it gets any later." He turned to Thistle. "You can get him out on one of the trolleys. No one will see you, correct?"

"Sure thing." Thistle hoisted the corpse up over his shoulder. Jonathan returned his gaze to Glass so that he wouldn't have to look into Laramie's expressionless face one last time.

"Hey doc?"

"Yes, Mr. Glass?"

"Where are we taking _her_ to?"

"You will help me transport her to her car, so she'll have her car with her when she comes to. I will be driving her home."

"Could I come?"

"No."

"Aw, come on." The stout man's stupid eyes narrowed; Jonathan sensed a conflict of interests.

"Don't be absurd. You won't be missing anything perverse or immoral."

"Yeah, _right_."

"Just help me, will you? Or that considerable stipend you've been received along with your monthly income will be significantly decreased."

The other man grunted a dissatisfied mutter of agreement and went after his equally dissolute counterpart to find another trolley.

In the prickling silence that followed, Jonathan finally brought himself to look down at her. Her face was hidden, thankfully, in the limp drape of her arm. There were no empty eyes or gaping mouth to see. One of her shoes had fallen off in her terrified scramble, revealing a pale foot with a soft-jutting ankle extending out from a fanning pant leg. Her other arm was cradled close to her chest, curled inward toward her heart. The curve of her spine was gentle but firm, the best protection she'd had to offer to the sinister, unfamiliar world into which his toxin had plunged her. Dark hair had come loose from its bun, trailing in inky strands along her throat and the floor about her.

Despite the muted quality of the lighting and the impassiveness of his gaze, her hair shone with an odd, faintly nocturnal glow. He could almost imagine how it felt. Like a ribbon, running water-swift through fingers. Fascinated, he bent, hand outstretched to touch—

"Brought the stretcher, doc."

His heart lurched and he straightened with painful speed. "Well done, Mr. Glass."

The two of them heaved together to lift her onto the trolley, followed by her briefcase. Light as she looked, the unexpected heaviness of any human body in combine with the odd melancholy Jonathan now felt made her seem ten times as unwieldy. One of her slim, limp hands hung motionless over the stretcher's edge, and, in spite of his repeated efforts to return it to her side, it would always resume its original wilted position, with the stubborn inflexibility only a deep sleeper can possess. It distressed him somehow to see the bloodless hand constantly return to its place, suspended over the distant floor, so far from the rest of her body, but he knew any further exertions would be in vain.

They rolled the trolley out into the silent halls, one of the wheels squeaking irritably and refusing to remain quiet. As they did so, Jonathan made a hasty, one-handed search of her briefcase, trying to find something with an address on it. Finally, he found an unmailed letter, with her return address scrawled in the corner. She'd probably been intending to mail it on her way home from work. Tucking it furtively into his jacket pocket, he closed her case and continued rolling the trolley towards the parking lot.

He quickly deduced the identity of her car; hers was the only one that was left, besides his own and a few cars in the spaces reserved for the guards. The keys were in her pocket; Jonathan did his best to make their removal as apparently chaste as possible so Glass didn't get any more lascivious ideas. As he should have predicted, the attempt was futile.

"C'mon," the guard whined as they lifted her into the backseat, "Let me come with you two. I'll wait until you're done with her, doc."

"Mr. Glass," Jonathan replied coolly over the screech of the trolley as they folded it up and placed it in the trunk, "I am thankfully unfamiliar with whatever delusion you are under the influence of, but let me assure you that whatever it may be I have no intention of pursuing it myself."

"You're pathetic."

"And you only more so to be in my employ," Jonathan quipped, feeling more like himself now that his reputation was nearly immaculate again, "I promised Valencia I'd return you to him by nine o'clock. Go back to your post."

Still muttering mutinously, Glass left the parking lot, leaving Jonathan alone under the glaring lights with his unconscious intern and her car, which was in dire need of a wash. Making a mental note to fire Glass along with Valencia when he got the chance, he opened the driver's door and got in, practically folding himself up to fit into the cramped space. Checking the address on the letter one more time, he put the keys in the ignition and pulled out of the gated lot. The guard was too sleepy to realize he was driving a different car.

The lights in most of the buildings were out, but the streets of the Narrows were teeming with openly criminal activity. A husky boy was busy vandalizing a wall of the nearby apartment building, a cigarette glowing at his mouth. Only a block away, a drug dealer and his cronies waited under the hollow illumination of a streetlight. A crowd of starved-looking prostitutes eyed the car as it passed, then turned away with languid despair as he showed no intention of stopping. An empty bottle of spirits lay nearby the outstretched hand of a collapsed drunk, clearly too impoverished for the attentions of even the other prowling denizens.

Jonathan wondered quietly to himself how, after returning her to her residence, he would get home. He had no desire to return to the Asylum tonight, even to pick up the incriminating evidence in his office or oversee the toxin's distribution into the water supply. He'd brave the night and take the train. No dinner tonight. Too tired. He would just set his alarm and collapse in bed, return to work in the morning by train.

He knew the city well, even in darkness, but he somehow managed to miss the exact location of her apartment building twice before finally pulling into the subterranean parking structure and taking the keys out of the ignition. There; now he'd just put her on the trolley, claim to be her physician to any who inquired, ask the doorman for the location of her apartment, and—

There was a sudden, rough intake of breath from the backseat.

His hold on the wheel became a death-grip as his eyes flashed to the rearview mirror. She was sitting up.

Everything seemed to freeze for an instant as he struggled to remember exactly what he'd injected her with. _She was supposed to be out for at least another hour… it's slow-acting, she's not really awake yet…_ He knew the details of the drug like the back of his hand, but he found them terribly hard to recall as she looked at him with bleary eyes.

"Dr. Crane?" She coughed out incredulously, voice raspy from the session of screaming she evidently had no memory of at the moment.

"Y-yes," he replied calmly, trying to seem as casual as possible. "Hello."

"I'm tired," she muttered.

"You need to come with me," he told her, fighting not to lose his nerve, "Get out of the car."

He got out and took the trolley out from the trunk and set it against a nearby wall. Its presence wouldn't be missed at the Asylum, and hopefully some transient would pick it up in the early morning for some obscure use or other. Then he helped her stumble out of the backseat, holding her case with his free hand, trying to ignore how she clung weakly to him as her sluggish feet strained to hold her weight. It seemed like hours passed before they reached the lobby of the apartment building, but they finally made it into the brightly-lit interior.

"Can I help you?" The clerk asked with some confused concern as they struggled past the front desk.

Jonathan forced what seemed like his hundredth false smile that night onto his mouth. "No, she's all right—just a little too much to drink. –I'm a friend of Darcy's," he added for corroboration.

There was really no need; he was sickened by the easy way with which the weary woman turned back to her magazine. She cared more for her crimson-painted nails than for her own tenants. He could have been a predator, a rapist, an escaped convict—and she merely stifled a yawn, cracked her gum, and turned a glossy page of her tabloid. Such was the city.

"What floor do you live on?" He asked slowly, patiently, as the elevator opened its doors.

"Four—no, fifth," she mumbled obediently, still showing no signs of having woken up any further, "Number fifty…three. Fifty-three."

Hoping her incoherent self-correction had truly been a correction, he pushed the button and watched the doors close as the elevator began its slow climb upwards.

Her jaw-cracking yawns were becoming contagious; he really didn't need this sort of adventure, what with the other affairs he had to manage in his life. Hopefully, he would see no repeat of such tomfoolery in the near future.

The number five over the doors lit up with a comforting chime and the doors slid open. Recognizing her home environment, she staggered forward, eyes brightening. He had to get her inside before her memories of the night's events returned. Before she became all too lucid and connected him with the monster that had murdered her former fiancé and poisoned her in his office.

Twin rows of luridly green doors lined the hall. Finding the one she had groggily named, he took her keys from his pockets and tried a few of them in the lock before finding the one that fit. The doorway opened up into darkness.

She shrank back against him from the dark with a soft, wordless whimper. He was surprised to see that, even in this half-asleep delirium, her profound fear still affected her.

Wordlessly, he switched on the lights, and her grip on him eased.

"Come on," he urged, nudging her forward. She needed no further prodding; she delicately made her way to an adjoining room, hands shakily gripping any surface they could find to speed her journey. He half-followed her, until he could see that she had stumbled onto a bed in the next room and was motionless once more. Breathing a sigh of relief, he turned to go, dropping the keys on the nearby counter, slipping the envelope back into her case and setting it nearby.

"Good night, Dr. Crane," she murmured from her prone position on the bed, voice muffled by a pillow.

Surprised, it was all he could do to mutter back, "Good night."

By instinct he nearly turned out the lights as he left, but something made him think better of it.

* * *

Author's Note

'Tis 11:30 pm on a very dark and windy November night… I love autumn. Except for the creaking floorboards and dancing shadows. Those are creepy.

By the way, for those of you who are noticing how goddamned _long_ it is taking for Falcone to 'attempt suicide' and be fear-gassed, sorry! I have to advance my own plot just a _wee_ bit more. Let's pretend that several days elapse between his capture and that episode. For my sake..?

**ACleverName** – Dr. Who _rules_. :-)

**AngelLust12387** – You'll see what happens when Darcy wakes up… Mwahaha.

**Azina Zelle** – No such thing as an overly long review, m'dear. Leave as many as you want. :-D

**Dai Katana** – Your name changes every time I turn around! Eeee! But that's cool. Hey, _no _one is better than the Beatles; you flatter me! And yes, I OWN Crane! Or so I'd like to think. It's probably the other way around. (glances sidelong at Jonathan, who raises an eyebrow)

**Dr.E.Vance** – I love you too. How was your Crane-a-licious Halloween? Sorry, that last chapter seemed a little weak to me too; the extensive editing process was why I took the sabbatical. No offense taken. :-)

**Eccentric Banshee** – Yes, Jonathan eating ice cream…adorable. Especially when he's trying to keep his appearance perfectly immaculate and dignified while doing so. Especially when a big scoop rolls off his spoon and falls into his lap. Hahaha. (snickers at Jonathan, who glares daggers) 'I challenge anyone to read this story and not love it'… Awww, thanks! I _do_ need pens by the way. I handwrite all my rough drafts, and all my favorites are running out.

**hornofgondor2 – **Aww. Taking off a fic is always painful. (pat on back) There, there. Get back on the horse, we all love you.

**Karina of Darkness** – It's okay that you didn't read the last chapter immediately. I think everyone was little caught up in Halloween revelry and, by _my_ book, that's just fine. :-D

**Not Human** – Yay! Keep reading! And posting _Lucid Dreamer_:-D

**Skyler McAndrews** – Student teaching? (screams) Eh, it's for a good cause, though, I suppose. Glad you and your dark subconscious are continue to read and review. :-)

**SpadesJade** – I solemnly swear to keep the sabbaticals to a bare minimum for my devoted and extraordinarily lovely readers… (simpers)

**The Nth Degree** – Ha! You're the first reader to actually ask me if I'm an achluophobe like my dear heroine… An astute observation, on your part:_ yes_, I am. I've always been unreasonably afraid of the dark, and I slept with a night light until I was like 7. I would still sleep with one now if it weren't so darned unseemly.

**REVIEW! **I implore you! For **Chapter 14** will be arriving soon, in which there is **a prolonged stroll in the park**…

Hugs and tubs of icing,

Blodeuedd


	14. Under the trees in autumn

You like it under the trees in autumn

Because everything is half dead.

The wind moves like a cripple among the leaves

And repeats words without meaning.

-from _The Motive for Metaphor_ by Wallace Stevens

…

She knew even before she woke that everything in her ached. Even opening her eyes felt like jabbing a fresh bruise. She sat up slowly, trying to ignore the trickle of agony trailing down her spine, vertebra by throbbing vertebra.

Hazy, returning vision revealed that she was in her bed, still wearing the clothes she'd worn to work. But no memory of getting there.

Crawling to her feet and feeling like an invalid, she inched to her kitchen and searched for something to eat. A glass of milk and a raw slice of bread later, she felt infinitely more clear-headed. Her eyes fell on her briefcase and keys, which were silently watching her sluggish, painful processes from their place on the counter.

Seeing them sank a shimmer-quick spur into the flanks of memory.

_Dark…_

The mouthful of bread went sour in her mouth. She could scarcely feel her fingers, gripping her temples like a vise. Her vision darted and danced, haunted by something she couldn't name. What the hell had happened?

She gritted her teeth and struggled to remember, but it was like forcing two similarly polarized magnets to touch. Nothing.

_The application essay._ Her last memory. Pushing the plate and empty glass aside, she tugged the case to her and riffled through the meaningless papers. It wasn't there. She had gone back to retrieve it and found—beyond that moment in her mind lay a terrifying stretch of void, a gaping rupture where such a wound should not have been.

"Crane," she whispered, half-epithet, half-mystery.

She made a regrettably hasty grab for the phone that left her head swimming. Dialing the Asylum, she waited for an answer, not able to understand why her heart was clenching open and closed like a fist.

"_Thank you for calling the Elizabeth Arkham Asylum for the Criminally Insane,_" a sugary-sweet machine chirped in her ear, "_If you know your party's extension, you may dial it at any—_"

Three vicious stabs of her forefinger interrupted the mechanical recitation.

"_One moment, please._"

She tugged at a loose, smoky wisp of hair anxiously, molars crushing her tongue. _Pick up the goddamn phone. Don't make me wait._

Another automated voice took over from its predecessor.

"_Dr. Jonathan Crane isn't here right now, but if you'd like to—_"

"Dr. Jonathan Crane speaking." The voice was flat but definitely human.

"It's Darcy. I—"

"Good afternoon."

"Aftern—" She glanced at the glowing green digits of the clock on her microwave. _Damn_. "Oh," she managed aloud.

"You've missed no less than a day and a half of work, Ms. Crandell. Would you care to explain?"

"Actually, I was going to ask you the same thi…" She trailed off, sensing the tension suddenly contained within the telephone cord's slender wires.

"Ask me what?" The voice was mild as ever, but something beneath it seemed to harden and fold itself closed. Daunted, she searched for words, both furious and on the verge of tears, but found none.

"Ask me what?" He repeated into her silence.

"Is Laramie there?" She asked, not knowing why she asked, not knowing why her voice was weaker than tissue paper.

"Pardon?"

"Is Laramie there?" She was nearly shouting this time.

"Contain yourself. –No, he's not. Is he somehow to blame for your hitherto-unmentioned vacation?"

"Yes—no—I don't know."

"Well then. Regardless of whatever confusion has obviously occurred within the last thirty-six hours, I expect you here within the next two."

"No."

One of his delicate, feminine sighs. "What seems to be the problem now?"

"I don't want to come back yet. I—" She faltered. Downright intimidating as the man was, he needed to know. "I need to talk to you."

"Come to Arkham and I can almost guarantee the likelihood of a face-to-face conversation."

They would be at it all day at this rate. "Can we meet somewhere else?"

"Ms. Crandell, I have an appointment in the next two and a half minutes. Can your trials and tribulations wait?" He was losing interest fast.

"Robinson Park?" She asked bluntly, not wanting to be caught with a droning receiver and no closure.

There was a quietly irritated pause. "You're being more inarticulate than usual today, Ms. Crandell. _What_ was that?"

"Robinson Park—it's between my apartment and Arkham. Meet me by the north entrance when you get off work."

"Very well. I'll bring what portable paperwork and projects you've missed so some semblance of order can be resumed."

_How like you._

"I'm simply efficient, Ms. Crandell."

Had she just said that out loud? She clapped a hand to her mouth; apparently she was less lucid than she'd thought.

"Until then," he said into her stunned silence before hanging up, leaving her with the faintest sensation of being mocked.

…

School had been let out nearly two hours earlier, but the children were still shrieking and playing in the transient, ever-setting sun of late autumn, just as they had when Darcy had left them for Dartmouth. The tired parents looked warier and seemed to be anticipating a massive threat to their offspring to arrive at any minute in the form of a stray contaminated needle or an errant, childless male; but the children were the same as they'd been years ago, tumbling about with athleticism and imagination despite the fact that those of them who could afford it were bundled up within an inch of their lives.

She'd taken an Advil and the bone-deep pain had subsided enough to let her feel up to a walk to the park. But the wind, brisk and smelling of early snow, prevented her from entirely recovering anyway. Pulling her bulky scarf tighter about her throat, she glanced at her watch. Any minute now.

She chewed her lip, wondering what she should say. It would sound crazy. He was a psychiatrist—he could _smell_ insanity. He'd insist to put her into therapy, it would derail her med school aspirations. She could just leave, forget it all—

But the darkness of the shadows under the browned leaves made her think twice. She had to tell _someone_. Maybe he would understand.

"_Tag!_" A little girl's voice squealed, making Darcy whirl about in surprise. The child scurried off to escape her newly-designated pursuer, a chubby straw-haired boy, but not before giving her elder a wary look of undisguised confusion and bewilderment.

_I must look terrible. _She'd put her hair back in a knot, but the shorter strands kept escaping, try as she might to tuck them behind her ears. No makeup whatsoever—she'd been too cranky and lightheaded to try to make any preparations before this meeting. The clothes chosen were haphazardly selected from her closet: faded jeans, gray pea coat, the fraying old scarf she hadn't worn since high school. Crane might as well make the arrangements for her padded room the minute he saw her; she certainly _looked_ the part of a madwoman.

A single drop of moisture landed on her cold-numbed nose, making her look up at the clotted clouds overhead. When she lowered her gaze from the leaden skies, she saw a familiarly lanky figure approaching up the slick-wet sidewalk, angular as a gutted fish despite his dark trench coat flagging behind him. Darcy almost smiled at the sight—his cold, knifing aloofness from the rest of the world seemed comfortingly trite and ordinary now.

"Dr. Crane," she called by way of greeting once he was within earshot, taking her gloves out of her coat pocket and pulling them on. Typical of a Gotham November, the temperature seemed to have dropped ten degrees in the last five minutes.

He walked up in silence, eyes looking out at the children's dwindling games. A cranberry scarf encircled his throat, contrasting viciously with the rest of his ascetic outfit.

"Nice," she commented, stalling for time.

He glanced down in disbelief, as if he'd forgotten he was wearing it. "Dr. Bannon was so kind as to knit it for me," he remarked emptily, "She called it an early Christmas gift."

She knew he was wearing it not to express any delight over the present, but as a practicality to combat the cold.

"Your work, Ms. Crandell." A thick portfolio was thrust into her gloved hands.

"Thanks." She smiled tautly and tucked it under her arm.

"So what is it you wanted to speak to me about?" A little boy struggled past them with hollow gray eyes, the heavy satchel of books on his shoulder nearly tipping him over. Crane watched him pass with a fiercely quiet curiosity.

"Last night—the night before last, I mean—do you know anything about it?" She tried, testing the waters. She began a slow meander along the path, not expecting him to follow up until the very second he began walking alongside.

"What about it?" He finally turned to face her, eyes veiled and watching the slow tempo of his feet. "Nothing remarkable."

"Well, I forgot my application essay in your office, and—"

"I know; I found it there this morning."

"—and when I came back to get it, I found—"

"The essay? Intriguing." He was smiling with his teeth, the way she hadn't seen him smile since the job interview. Patiently, she realized he was laughing at her, but in a gentler way than usual.

"No, not the essay." The memory was coming more slowly now. It wouldn't be long before it trailed off into that unmovable block. "I found—_Mike._" The word which had been so difficult to conjure up now came easily.

"Laramie?"

"Y-yes. Hadn't—hadn't you just been speaking to him?" She dropped her eyes from his face, afraid to make him feel incriminated.

"I had," he remarked dryly, "I had left him there to weather out his own temper."

It made sense. He'd made himself scarce to evade that churlish rage she had hated so much in college. An icy puddle blocked her path and she leapt lightly over it, ignoring the current of wooziness that followed. Things were making sense.

"And what do you remember happening next?"

"Mike," she repeated, delighted simply to have found a word to fill in the blanks in her mind, "Something was wrong with him." She watched her breath misting, dissolving into the whitish air. "Something. I don't know what."

"Was he upset?"

"Probably. And then—" The numb, sheer vertigo she'd felt at the table that morning returned. She turned inside out and her knees buckled. She could barely feel the steadying hand on her shoulder, let alone realize it was his.

"It got dark," she murmured roughly, fidgeting and trying to put her mind elsewhere. "The lights went out. Like they'd never go back on again."

"And then you awoke at home?"

Darcy furrowed her brow but couldn't focus. The trees on the horizon reached for the sky and the buildings shone. The birdsong sounded like people talking. She didn't want to think about the darkness—she didn't want to concentrate—

"Yes," she forced out finally, straightening and standing on stronger legs. "I have no idea what happened in the day and a half while I was out." Another thought came to her, unbidden and chilling. "But I think there was someone else in your office that night."

He wasn't looking at her anymore. His gaze traced the skyline with an oddly forced pensiveness, and his footsteps had quickened ever so slightly.

"_Jonathan_," she said without thinking, trying to get his attention.

She'd heard the other doctors call him that, but had never before had the nerve or impropriety to do so herself. It sounded odd and almost too intimate in her mouth, so she spat it out quickly, just to jar him.

His head jerked towards her sharply, but for an instant the intensity of his harsh blue eyes was diminished.

"Really." His hand went to his glasses and stayed there, as if unsure of what he had meant to do—but effectively, she realized, shielding his weakened eyes from hers.

"I'm fairly certain."

"Do you have any idea of who it was?"

"No. Can't remember."

"I see." The deadness returned to his gaze, and his hands were deep in his pockets. "That information can be uncovered later on. It's fairly typical. You have retained the memory, but blocked it out of your consciousness."

She glanced toward the setting sun; nearly all the children had gone home. "It's getting late and I need to go get some dinner…but thanks for coming." The pathway before and behind them was already dim and vague; he probably saw the dormant terror she felt at having to travel home by foot in the dark. "Do you need to get going?" She asked reluctantly.

"I do. Because of your unforeseen absence, I must transcribe the notes from the day's therapy sessions myself, but if you really are as mortified of the darkness as you claim—" She flinched in indignity at his scorn; another itinerant smile crossed his lips. "—I should probably accompany you simply to avoid your possible relapse." His smile disappeared as he stared into the last of molten sunset. "Gotham is a dangerous place."

Cars whisked past as they crossed the street to the lively avenues across from the park, leaving the vast darkness to wait under the trees and blacken the waters of the nearby city reservoir. Lights were lit in the buildings and streets and the lives of two were nothing in a numberless population.

* * *

Author's Note

It's late and I'm tired, so this will be short and sweet.

**ACleverName** – Yeah, I'm trying to delay the inevitable roll in the hay as much as I can. I hate the fics where it's like fillerfillerfillerSEX. Poor taste. Where _is_ your fic? Me want! (jumps up and down)

**AngelLust12387** – Hah, your 'wait and see if Darcy's ok' idea is a good one. Me likey. Maybe throw some CPR in there.

**Chi** – Just tell us when you post your Cranefic and I am _so_ there! Thank for reviewing!

**Dai Katana** – Yes, 'tis a cool name. And as for renting a certain doctor, why don't you ask him yourself? (looks over at Crane)

Jonathan: (indignant) I am not to be sold like some indentured servant for your amusement!

Me: Come on. How much do you think you're worth?

(The idea of putting a price tag on himself clearly appeals to Jonathan's ego)

Jonathan: Hmmm. (smugly) Like ten thousand. And that's the lowest I'll go.

Me: SOLD! (sigh) Pimping Jonathan Crane…what's next?

**Dr.E.Vance** – You know, I'm with you on the whole 'romance and Crane are like oil and water' idea. In 'reality,' I know for a fact that he is this frigid, asexual robot who could care less about frivolous passions and soft emotions. My friend and I even joke that it would take a falling I-beam and about a million oysters to knock him into love. However, I was tired of reading Mary-Sues where he ended up becoming this soft, fuzzy cutie for some perfect, unreal girl, and wanted to read a story where he retained his cold, logical character and the female protagonist was a realistic person. I don't want to give away too much now, but I think you'll like the ending if you're hating this. So pleeeease stay reading.

**Eccentric Banshee** – Mwahaha. I promise to let Brucie have Glass once Crane's through with him. (looks over at Crane, who is having the time of his life scaring the living daylights out of Glass)

Jonathan: Boo!

Glass: EEEEAAAAAAH!

Jonathan: (crouches down and then pops back up) BOOOO!

Glass: (whimper)

Me: Okay, okay, let's let nice Mr. Wayne have his turn…

**ForensicPhotographer711** – Mwahaha. Clownophobic, are you? (Crane perks up in his chair)

**Firefly4000** – Happy ending? (sighs sadly and shakes head) I hate having to tell people this, but a happy ending isn't exactly what I have in mind. Keep reading, though? Pwease? (puppy eyes)

**hornofgondor2** – Yups! Tubs of icing. I can never resist them. :-D

**Jonathansgirl18** – YAY! Bad manners ruuuule!

**Kagerou-chan** – I loved _28 Days Later_, even before I truly loved Cillian. He struck me even then as an immensely talented and handsome actor, though. _Fantastic _voice and eyes. And the shirtless parts… (melts) I recommend it along with you to everyone else.

**kayla** – Love you, babe! We're going to have a greeeeat weekend. ;-)

**Mistress of the Sand** – I'm so flattered. Thank you! It's good to know I'm inspiring some people out there. It's something I never even dreamed of. (puts hand to heart like Miss America) Thank you. Seriously.

**Mizamour** – _Love_ Valjean! Very, very much.

**Sophie** – I am so glad you're enjoying this! I'm just scared that I've made an addict out of you. Eeesh. ;-)

**SpadesJade** – Patience, my young grasshopper. Soooon. Sooooooon. (rubs hands together wickedly) And glad you liked Thistle and Glass, by the way. I had to throw some Dickensian names in there before I went insane. ;-)

**Tigger-180** – I know it was cute. (smiles smugly)

**VampireNaomi** – Of course. Jonathan Crane is a gentleman. A decidedly odd and unnerving gentleman, but a gentleman nonetheless.

Wow, so _many_ reviews! (claps hands with glee) Love you guys! Keep them coming! **Chapter 15**…no comment. ;-)

Love always,

Blodeuedd


	15. Eyes wide, undoubtful

While myriad snowy hands are clustering at the panes—

_your hands within my hands are deeds;_

_my tongue upon your throat – singing_

_arms close; eyes wide, undoubtful_

_dark_

_drink the dawn—_

_a forest shudders in your hair!_

-from _The Harbor Dawn_ by Hart Crane

…

"It's beginning to snow," he remarked in a voice like cracking ice, looking towards the cloudy skies. There was no impression of his impatience to be found in either tone or bearing, but she felt the imagined press of it anyway.

"Do you want to get some dinner?" She asked nervously, blinking away the insubstantial flakes of burning-cold sleet.

"It is of no consequence to me what you choose to do."

"There's a café up here; it'll just be a minute." An anxious glance to gauge his reaction proved fruitless—he was merely tugging at his bright scarf, as if it annoyed him.

The café was one she remembered from childhood: golden-lit, sweet-smelling. She hastily picked out a sandwich and ordered a coffee.

"You hungry?" She asked him, scratchy-voiced with cold as she spoke over the roar of the coffee grinder and the gentle ooze of insipid holiday music.

He shook his head. "I plan to eat when I return home."

"Just a coffee."

He shrugged at her insistence. "If you insist." His voice was different; decidedly not warmer or gentler, but lazier. Lenient.

She ordered another coffee; when she turned to look towards him he'd gone over to the newspaper rack, absentmindedly glancing over the front page, long fingers brushing a headline for an instant before everything in him straightened and looked out into the black cold, as if expecting retribution for his easy informality.

"Coffee for…Darlene?" The adolescent barista flushed and chewed his lip, clearly aware that he'd misread her name. She smiled patiently and took the two coffees and her sandwich, handing one to Crane before they left the coffee shop.

"Well," she said with a false enthusiasm into the bone-deep chill, "I can walk from here. Thanks for—"

"I didn't become the head of Arkham simply because I can buckle someone into a straitjacket, Ms. Crandell. Don't insult me." He stared at his paper cup but didn't drink.

Her cheeks burned despite the sleety winter night. "Sorry. –And that wasn't a lie," she added with a nervous chuckle.

"I know." He sounded like he was expressing condolences at funeral. Darcy smiled into her scarf as she walked.

"Dr. Crane?" She had the feeling he might actually humor her prattle tonight, so she ignored her coffee-singed tongue and took a chance.

"Yes?"

"Do you ever laugh?"

He didn't miss a beat. "Must I?"

"Well, shouldn't you?"

"I see no call for laughter when I have twenty sessions' worth of notes waiting for me once I complete this errand."

"Point taken."

There was no response to her concession; his eyes were watching the line of parked cars to their right. "My car's here. Is coming down with influenza as well as unexcused absences from work also on your list of priorities, Ms. Crandell?"

"No," she replied quietly. Even though he unlocked the car and opened the passenger door for her, she realized she still felt like a vulnerable stranger as she got in. Something, some indescribable trepidation, indescribable but giddy too, sitting in the back of her mouth. She occupied herself by tugging at a button on her jacket, tempted to smirk at her own idiocy. He drove carefully, as if it were a life-or-death process, eyes never leaving the road, words never leaving his mouth.

The Wayne Tower slid past, a gleaming pillar warped in the curve of the window, and she didn't realize until they were a block away from the Clocktower and two blocks from home that she hadn't given him directions.

"Wait."

"What is it?" The words were slow and drawn out; he was preoccupied with watching the stoplight, his face bloodstained with its glow.

"My, uh, apartment—it's near here." She couldn't think of anything else to say. Something deep between her ribs bucked in a sudden dread, but sense quelled its fleshy tremors. He was probably just making a loop, waiting for her to direct him.

"Where?" It was the same forced preoccupation again, the word narrowly escaping between the gentle clench of his teeth.

"Take the—the next right after this one. It'll be the building with the navy blue overhang on your left."She became conscious of the fact that she was sitting forward in her seat, as if prepared to smash through the windshield. Quickly, she sat back, compelling herself to take a sip of her cooling coffee, knowing as she did so how paranoid and lonely she was, to think such things.

The stoplight washed the car in green, and they proceeded forward, making the turn she'd indicated and pulling to a stop in front of her apartment building. She opened the door and got out, clutching her coffee and sandwich close; he rolled down the window, hands resting on the wheel as he looked into the lobby of the building with a strange remembering.

"Fourth, fifth, or sixth floor?" The doorman asked as she neared.

She nodded cautiously, hand on the handle of the lobby entrance.

"There's been a problem with the electricity on those three floors," the hulking man told her wryly, flashing teeth that were blindingly white against his dark skin, "Happens every single winter. Just take the stairs and the power'll be on again tomorrow morning."

"Oh, really…" She trailed off, heart pounding. Involuntarily, she looked back towards Crane, where he sat in the car, eyes a plea, a silent cry. Sheila, Dr. Bannon—anyone she knew—would have met her appeal with a roll of the eyes and a careless motion onwards, but he simply turned off the ignition and pocketed the keys, eyes boring into the dashboard for a moment of indecision—or almost indecision; he didn't strike her as one to be caught between two roads. Something in him won and he got out of the car, trailing behind her as she headed into the foyer.

"You heard about the power problem?" Lindsay asked her as she entered, looking up from her magazine and leaning conversationally on the desk.

"Yeah. I suppose the heat's out too?"

"Sadly, yes. Cold as a bitch up there. I can send some blankets up, if you want. –Back again?" She was looking at Crane, a tentative smile curling her glossed lips upward.

"Sorry?" Darcy inquired before she understood the question wasn't directed to her. She looked up at his face and saw his eyes grow hard.

"I don't know what you're talking about," he replied in tones of steel, flatly deflecting the query. Lindsay made a face and returned to her tabloids, one eyebrow still trapped in an indignant arch as her gaze skimmed the latest sensations. It was Crane who led the way to the stairs, his footsteps carrying the slightest trace of a hurry in their empty, pulsing strokes.

"What was that?" She asked as the door slid closed behind them and they began their slow ascent. "Have you been here lately?" The question was innocent, playful, but oddly resonant and real in a way she hadn't known it would be.

"No. She must have mistaken me for someone else," he replied shortly, hand gripping the rail.

They climbed in silence, until the fluorescent lights overhead suddenly went dark as they came to the landing of the fourth floor. He disappeared into blackness in front of her and an unwilling scream rose, waiting to tear her apart and burst forth as horror cawed rasping pronunciations of blind panic into her ear.

"Keep walking, Darcy," came his voice, the only sign of life. She clung to it and it pulled her onwards, even as she recognized the clichéd soothing, saccharine tone he adopted as a psychiatrist. "I can hear you hyperventilating. Don't think about the dark."

She followed the echoes of his footsteps blindly, counting the stairs in a desperate attempt at distraction. _One…two…three…four…five…six…_

Her foot slipped off the lip of a concealed stair and she did scream this time, hanging on to the rail, muscles balling up into shivering knots. The stifling air closed in upon her.

"Get back up." Where was he? He was nowhere. She was alone.

"I can't," she whimpered. _I'm just a pair of eyes in this dark. I close them, and those will be lost too. I'm lost. _

"Do as I say. Get back on your feet. You slipped, but you're back. You're safe now." It must have been the odd acoustics of the narrow stairwell; it sounded as if his once-emotionless voice were choked with some unknown grief.

The sound of his humanness brought her feet to stand on a solid concrete stair, standing shaky-kneed and waiting for him to speak again.

"Come on," he said after a moment, voice still oddly strangled. "Walk. Again."

She stepped carefully but easily now. The dark ceased to press in upon her, its fingers loosed its grip about her heart. It was all around her, yes. She could smell the sinister, waiting fear in the corners of her mind. But it wouldn't hurt her for the time being.

It felt like an age, but they finally reached what memory told her was the fifth floor. A bit of fumbling opened the door, and they were in the narrow hall of green doors, their ugliness lost in the swallowing black. A pale square of moonlight shone through the window at the end of the all, barely delineating his skeletal outline before her. Even that flimsy gleam was a comfort; she felt her pulse slow to an ethereal, queasy murmur in her temples and neck.

She knew he was watching her, knew she looked like a ghost as she walked slowly down the hall away from him, waiting for her apartment number to flash faintly out of the darkness of a bluish moonlit doorway.

Finally, a golden flicker of five and three met her searching eyes.

"Here I am," she said with an unseen smile for his shadow loitering down in the gradually deepening darkness of the corridor, feeling in her coat pockets for her keys. His starved shade said nothing in return, so still and motionless that he seemed almost frozen.

She put her key in the lock, smile widening. "Thanks," she called out cheerfully, waving vaguely at the figure, "Thanks for helping me. Good night—"

Nothing. Not a sound. The sleet outside whispered against the frozen glass, deafeningly soft.

The nothing made her halt. Simply the nothing she got in reply. It stopped her as surely as a hand on the shoulder. The knowing that he was searching for words and finding none. The gradual breaking inside him.

It stopped her feet and heart, and made her turn around again, to look at him—him, wan and thin and unreal against the powdery progression of light into dark.

"Come here," she said, so soft she could barely hear her own voice, more questioning than commanding, feeling herself almost shrink back as he started towards her. It was impossible to realize what had happened first—the invisible fall of a mouth upon hers or the upward press of her own to his.

As they stumbled together into her apartment, the shadows woke and rose to meet them, but she was not afraid.

* * *

Author's Note

Dearest Readers,

Now I know there are some of you who've been longing for this moment forever, and those of you who have been dreading it, and I know that after reading this chapter a percentage of both will be disappointed. To the former group, I'm sorry, there will be no explicit roll in the sheets waiting for you in the next chapter—far be it from me to describe the most intimate moment imaginable between two people at this time in my young life. (Yes, I do realize how cheesy that sounds.) To the latter group, sorry; in my defense, I _did_ bill this as a romance fic. Either way, spare me the gratuitous criticism and blame it on Johnny Cash and Bob Dylan—'twas their rendition _Girl from the North Country_ that got me through this chapter. And sorry yet again for the belatedness of this chapter…obviously, it was difficult to write. That Crane is a man of ice.

**Kagerou-chan** – I sure thought of _Red Eye_ when I gave Crane his scarf! Consider it a tribute—as well as a physical representation of his humanity, however temporary. :-) Gotta love symbolism.

**Eccentric Banshee** – Answering the phone in the third person? It's just professional…ok, ok, _and_ funny. So now you're a female Crane look-alike? Geek chic, babe. Start speaking in a monotone, wearing sweater-vests, and carrying around weaponized hallucinogens and you're set. Yeah, double exam threat. Hate that. In fact, two tests were what kept me from writing and posting this chapter sooner. Sucks!

**Dai Katana** – 'Psychical,' 'physical,' same diff. You're not an idiot!

**Tigger-180** – Obviously, she doesn't remember…for _now_.

**SpadesJade** – I do like reading poetry…most of my little snippets come from the ginormous anthologies I have in my room. Looking for excerpts that coincide with the events in my chapters is definitely fun; I'll miss it when I finish this fic. I think if you check back a little ways, you'll see Darcy does mention her achluophobia to Crane.

**Firefly4000** – Go ahead and include the ideas for your fanfic in the next review; I'd love to hear what you have planned.

**ForensicPhotographer711** – (glares at Crane) Down, boy. No scary clouds or clowns.

**AngelLust12387** – Yup, Mike is as dead as a doornail from the overdose of fear toxin that Rachel Dawes _should_ have suffered from in the movie, if Batman hadn't conveniently come to her rescue in the nick of time. (DARN!)

**hornofgondor2** – Heh, me too. I have a habit of letting my mouth run away with me before I think about what I say. Grrr.

**Dr. E. Vance** – Happy birthday to your friend:-D

**Sophie** – I think I would be one of those fangirls trying to tackle poor ickle Crane. (guilty grin)

**ACleverName** – I am very much in love with poetry… It's creepily funny how many people asked me about where I get my poetry oddments after I posted Chapter 14; they're all from these phonebook-sized anthologies and collections I have on my bookshelves. It's almost scary how alike these poems are to the chapters they precede. ;-)

In **Chapter 16**, the **events of _Batman Begins_ really come into play**…stay tuned for yet another **Crane POV** chapter!

I know I have** 200+ reviews**, but you know **I'll love you even more if you kick it up to 250** before story's end!

Slices of cheesecake and chocolate bars to each and every one of you,

Blodeuedd


	16. Downward to darkness

Downward to darkness, on extended wings.

-from _Sunday Morning_, by Wallace Stevens

…

He knew it should have been there. An easy peace, between the drift of dark clouds above and every frail breath. A well of calm, freed from passion once more.

It should have been there, but it wasn't.

His car roared to life, and he felt every cord within himself draw tight at the lingering sound, burning to loose his growing frustration in a similar, snarling release. What had gone wrong?

He had done it. He had done what his regrettably impulsive, vilely vase urges had told him to do, had been telling him to do since the last visit to his crumbling childhood home. It was all there, branded into his memory. The flash of her dark-lashed eye in the weakest of lights. What it felt like to catch her breath between his teeth. The ribbon-silk-water feel of her long hair between his trembling fingers.

He should have felt right again, felt clean again. The entangling past should have receded to its old place in the back of his mind.

But nothing had happened. Nothing felt any different—except that, for no reason he could consciously discern, he was decidedly more miserable than before.

Infuriated and powerless, he pulled out, away from her building, joining the stream of nobodies in the streets, heading for Gotham County Jail.

This was not a good time to visit a patient. But today he had no choice. Today _was_ no choice.

When he stopped outside the bleak cement structure, almost indistinguishable from the equally colorless sky, he didn't even pause to consider his options before taking the briefcase of fear toxin into the building with him.

…

"I'm sorry to have to call you on a Saturday, Dr. Crane…" The nearest official all but flew at him when he entered the narrow, dingy corridor to which he'd been directed. "Thanks for coming down."

He waved off the high-strung woman's hasty thanks. At the moment, he didn't want to bother with anyone's anxiety but his own. "Not at all. So he cut his wrists?" _Oh, Falcone, always one for theatrics, weren't you?_

"Probably looking for an insanity plea. But if anything happened…"

"Of course. Better safe than sorry."

She nodded and held open the door to the interview room for him. His grip on the briefcase was like that of a fanatic, an addict, a martyr as he entered the white-washed little room.

Carmine Falcone saw his entrance and lazily looked up at him, the glimmer of wicked, rodent cunning bright in his hard gaze.

"Dr. Crane," he remarked in with a blandly histrionic flair, "It's all too much, the walls are closing in, blah, blah, blah. Couple more days of this food—"

Jonathan closed his ears to the man's sardonic complaints, feeling the yank of the case at his sanity. _Enough._

"What do you want?" He asked, point-blank.

Suddenly sober, Falcone fixed him with a stare that was surprisingly fierce coming from an elderly man in a drab convict's uniform. "I wanna know how you're gonna convince me to keep my mouth shut."

He fought the urge to sit back in surprise, held his suddenly shaky ground. "About what?" _Don't look at the case. Don't. _"You don't know anything."

The other man smirked, confident of his attack. "I know you wouldn't want the cops taking a closer look at the drugs they seized. I know about your experiments on the inmates at your nuthouse—hear you killed a doctor the other night."

Glass.

Crane struggled to suppress a scowl of fury. The noose was closing about his neck. He could almost feel the burn of the rope.

"I don't get into business with someone without finding out their dirty secrets. Those goons you hired…I _own_ the muscle in this town."

_Ugly bag of bones. Ugly scarecrow. No friends, no love, no safety._

"I've been smuggling your stuff in for months, so whatever he's got planned, it's big," Falcone was saying over the howl of blood and anger, "And I want in."

He had to answer, fast. "I already know what he'll say," Jonathan countered. "That we should kill you."

Falcone leaned in, the city shining like some filthy, sadistic nightmare out of his eyes. "Even he can't touch me in here. Not in _my_ town."

_I can._ Jonathan felt himself smile, automatically, as if a puppet. His hands opened the briefcase with slow, playful deftness.

"Would you like to see my mask?"

The confidence in Falcone came to a stuttering halt.

"I use it in my experiments," Jonathan continued, holding the mask up for the crime lord to see. The familiar power took him over, gripping his face, his mind. "Probably not very frightening to a guy like you. But those crazies…"

There was no point in disputing it—he'd had no control of himself last night. A different man, a weaker man, had laced his fingers in Darcy's, fell with her into the dreamlike dark. But here—he was in charge. "…They can't stand it."

"When did the nut take over the—"

Toxin sang through the air; his smile was hidden in folds of burlap and stitches of twine.

"They scream and cry, much as you're doing now."

_Better in my mind you die, old man. But I shall give you the next best thing: insanity._

…

The unusual spectacle of a grown man reduced to sniveling depravity never ceased to work wonders for an ill mood. Jonathan felt much better as he left the room, Falcone's screams and cries barely muffled by the wall of concrete dividing them. The ringleader of Gotham's carnival of sin was merely a little piece of Arkham now, waiting to be returned to the whole.

"Oh, he's not faking," he heard himself all but purr to the waiting, wide-eyed official, "Not that one."

She nodded, gullible as a child. Really, the city administration needed to make a point of hiring seasoned, clever individuals.

"I'll talk to the judge; see if I can get him moved to the secure wing of Arkham. I can't treat him here."

He filled out the usual paperwork for a transfer request, never blinking, even when he signed his scrawling lie of a signature at the bottom of the affidavit declaring Carmine Falcone criminally insane. Dishonesty came so easily now.

The stark shadow of the jail disappeared behind him, but his work was far from over. A quick page through a grubby phone book on the way back to his car told him that Robert H. Glass lived near the docks of Miller Harbor. He left the phone booth with the address committed to memory.

Interactions with other human beings, especially those involving trust, were by and large predictable in this town. Somehow, though, this made betrayal—even a betrayal nipped in the bud—smart and sting all the more. By the time he found the slouching apartment, the sleet had become a rain and Jonathan's irritation had begun to boil.

The bedraggled seagulls roosting in the eaves of the soggy roof screamed at him as he approached. He met Glass at the door with his mask in hand and a bladder of fear toxin in his inner coat pocket.

"Morning, Doc," Glass drawled, scratching his protruding paunch, "What can I do fer?"

The harbor air stank of fish, urine, and alcohol. Jonathan was glad to put on his mask simply to escape the smell. Giving the blank-eyed security guard a fierce dose of the toxin was a decided plus.

"What were you thinking?" Jonathan demanded sharply, driving the terrified man backwards into the dank apartment by sheer force of drug-enhanced presence, slamming the weak door shut behind him. "Did you think I wouldn't find out?"

"I'm s-sorry, D-doctor Crane!" Glass stumbled backwards, voice a shaky whine. "Falcone w-wanted to know—"

"You've cost me valuable time and resources, Glass," he growled, reveling in the stockier man's fear, "I should kill you."

"N-no! _Please!_" Tears streamed down his stubbly cheeks. They meant as little to Jonathan as the water falling from the sickly skies.

"I'll frighten you to death. You'll claw your eyes out before I'm through. You'll scream yourself hoarse, scratch yourself bloody—"

He had to admit, preying on fears had given him a taste for melodrama.

"Oh, God! Please, no! Don't!"

"I seem to recall you having an unhealthy fear of spiders. Is that what you see now? Do you feel them yet, Glass?"

"St-stop, please stop…"

Jonathan hesitated. "I will, if you make me a promise."

"A-_anything._"

"First of all—never deceive me again. I'll know."

"Never again," Glass blubbered.

"Secondly, you're coming with me to destroy the last of the shipments. So if anyone _does_ hear anything from you—well, there'll be no proof to back you up and you'll know it."

The man's sobs of gratitude made his answer incoherent, but there was more of a hint of the affirmative in his shaky gush of random vowels and consonants.

"I will give you a call to remind you of our appointment tomorrow afternoon," Jonathan said gently. "And remember: not a word. Ever again."

He turned to leave, then stopped. "Oh yes; and the toxin should wear off—in an hour or two."

A chilling wail of despair rose from the apartment as Jonathan exited, shutting the door behind him and gliding to his car, almost forgetting to remove his mask before putting the keys in the ignition.

What a delightfully busy morning. It was enough to make him set aside the disturbing thought of seeing his intern again on Monday.

He headed home through the finger-like tapping of the rain, to home and the nap he had decidedly earned, all the while reminding himself to file a report for the disappearance of one Mike Laramie with the police when he awoke. It would go unanswered and uninvestigated, of course. People had better things to do.

* * *

Author's Note

As my profile page states, I'm a little befuddled and overwhelmed by this new author-messaging/review-replying thing. On the one hand, it allows me to converse intimately with registered readers, but it also kind of spoils the fun of the communal intimacy of an in-story reviewer response. So sorry, no responses for Chapter 15's reviews, in-story or otherwise, but I promise to get right back on track with this chapter's reviews and send out replies to everyone. Don't be mad…just review again (that sounds so ulterior) and I'll be dead certain to reply to you individually ASAP. Especial apologies to my **new readers**, for I know there are a few that I heard from for the first time last chapter. Anyways, **Chapter 17**, you ask? Try **the worst Monday ever and a shocking capture (well, it's shocking if you haven't seen the movie).**

Hope you had a happy Thanksgiving!

Blodeuedd


	17. Their torture of equilibrium

At length I saw these lovers fully were come

Into their torture of equilibrium;

Dreadfully had forsworn each other, and yet

They were bound each to each, and they did not forget.

-from _The Equilibrists_ by John Crowe Ransom

…

Until the instant she opened her mouth, she'd had no idea of what she was going to say.

"Good morning."

Perfection. She knew it was and stifled her smile of relief. No partiality, no sugary intimacy—just a discreet distance that would have made even the arctic psychiatrist proud, had he been awake to sense it.

But everything about Jonathan Crane at the moment screamed insomnia. For once, he actually looked disheveled and distracted. Phone cradled in the crook of one slender shoulder, he stared at her as if she'd returned from the dead before muttering a similarly bland, emotionless response.

She turned away under the pretense of tucking a bit of loose hair behind her ear, thanking all the while whatever power it was who governed Gotham with such a loose, forgiving hand. He wasn't decided yet either. He was still trying to make sense of Friday night. At least they were on the same page.

"Yes, I'm still here," she heard him reply, "Of course. –We're ready to accept him. There are a few cells vacant in suicide watch; one of those can go to him. –Yes. We have every intention of helping him recover. Thank you. Good bye." He hung up the phone; the ensuing silence lurched through the room with all the painless subtlety of a runaway freight train. "Carmine Falcone is coming to Arkham," he said at last.

"What?" Affectations forgotten, she reeled about to face him.

"He's being committed. You'll need to write up a file for him once we take down his personal information and current condition. You know the format."

"He—he's insane?" She asked, too shocked to do anything besides ask stupid, amateurish questions.

"Quite." A faint smile hovered around the corners of his mouth as he opened a portfolio and began scribbling furiously. "The stress of his arrest must have been too much. It often happens with figures of ill-gotten prestige and power."

"So it's over?"

"What is?"

She struggled to put her hopes into words. "The oppression—the corruption."

He leafed through some of the papers, pausing only to rub at a weary, bloodshot eye. "Don't be such an idealist," he remarked, voice sharp as a slap across the face, "Of course not. Something tells me it's just beginning, in fact. Inevitably, there will be a rush to fill in the vacuum he's left behind… Oh, do me a favor and run down to Dr. Willard's office, ask him where he put the list of open cells on the third floor, will you?"

…

The arrival of a new inmate was usually discreet, an occurrence which rarely disturbed the Asylum's fragile, unspoken infrastructure. The internment of Carmine Falcone changed that. The idea of Gotham's most powerful individual dangling in a straitjacket two stories overhead set shockwaves running through the staff for twenty-four hours after his entrance.

Such was the excitement that Darcy neither had time for awkwardly formal interactions with her employer or to notice Mike's absence until Tuesday. She was far too busy getting cups of coffee for visiting reporters of varying pedigrees and booking lectures for Jonathan. Universities and organizations were experiencing a renaissance of interest in the head of Arkham now that he had Carmine Falcone for a patient. Haunted and harried as he was lately, she saw the satisfaction in the farthest corners of his expression when she mentioned a phone call from Harvard or some psychiatrists' association.

The memory of Mike Laramie returned when she dropped a sheaf of papers on the floor of the office that evening, and bent to pick them up. The carpet came close, dingy and oddly familiar. She paused, some papers in hand, the others still strewn across the floor.

_He'd_ been here.

She stood up as if she'd knelt upon needles, heart racing._ How did she know this?_ Everything in her struggled to recall. Mike had been sick, blind, unreasoning.

He hadn't been angry; he'd been afraid.

"What exactly are you doing?" He stood in the doorway, back from an appointment.

"Just—I was just…" She swallowed, papers clenched almost too tightly in her hands.

The phone rang; she jumped a foot and he blinked gingerly behind his polished glasses.

"Well?" She looked at him, he looked to the phone, which was poised to ring again. "Answer it. It's what I hired you for, isn't it?"

Trembling as if the thick panes separating them from the late November cold had vanished, she went to the phone and picked it up.

"Hello? Dr. Jonathan Crane's office."

"This is Rachel Dawes. –Assistant D.A. for Gotham County," the fierce, female voice prompted when Darcy did not immediately respond, "Is Dr. Crane there?"

Darcy's eyes slid to where he knelt, picking up the remaining papers. "O-one minute." She put the phone on hold and turned to him. "Rachel Dawes?" She whispered.

His eyes grew cold, but he rose and set the papers aside, extending his hand for the phone. "Good evening, Ms. Dawes. How are you doing?

A crackling rant, audible even to Darcy from where she stood, interrupted his insipid greeting.

"Yes, he's here. It would be irresponsible of me to let a patient run rampant about Gotham, wouldn't it? Especially one in his condit—of course, I evaluated Mr. Falcone myself. He is decidedly unstable. Yes, I am familiar with Dr. Stacia Lehmann. –She is welcome to come examine Mr. Falcone whenever she chooses, but preferably a week from now. Understandably, we're quite busy at the moment. I myself—"

He paused as the woman's strident voice cut him short yet again. He took a deep breath, pushed his glasses up his nose, and mutely handed Darcy the recovered papers.

"_You?_ Come here? I would be more than willing to see you here maybe on Thursday or Friday, Ms. Dawes—but now? Just give me a moment to check my agenda, please." Putting the phone on hold once more, he turned to her.

"It's nearly six, Ms. Crandell. I think it's time for you to go home."

_Ms. Crandell._ Somehow she'd known. The formality had never left. He could kiss her mouth, pull her to him, clasp her hands in his all he wanted, but the distance had never truly left his sloe-colored eyes. She turned her back on him, tugging at the papers, painful tears threatening to fall.

She'd thought she'd been right.

"Why should I, Dr. Crane?" She turned it against him without really thinking, blinking the rising grief away.

"Darcy." The word came from the back of his throat, as if he were afraid to say it. "Please. Go home."

She stood, gathered her things, and left, trying not to wonder whether he'd meant it or was simply trying to get rid of her, get rid of the shared memories sticking in the backs of their minds.

…

_People with absent maternal attachments are often alienated, isolated, suspicious, and withdrawn. _

The cursor blinked vacantly, waiting for her to continue. The trill of the phone finally reached her buzzing ears. With a groan, she sat back from the laptop, pushed aside the massive textbooks blocking her hand's path, and picked up the receiver.

"Hello?" Her voice sounded as it should have after such a prolonged sit in furious silence in front of the laptop.

"Hel-_lo_, darling. How are you?"

"Mom?"

"Who else? You didn't return my call on Friday night. I was worried, naturally."

"I was—um, out late. Sorry."

"Just glad you didn't get into any trouble." A nervous beat. "Right?"

_Oh, no, Mommy. Just slept with my boss. And yes, he is thirty-one—I'm still twenty-four, if you're wondering. And now he's giving me a bit of the cold shoulder. So I'm not exactly his girlfriend, just the office whore. That's all. _"No, Mom. No trouble."

"So what're you up to?"

"My application."

"Still working on that darn thing?"

"I was—" _Hmm, passed out?_ "—busy."

"Oh, I _just_ remembered, Darce. I ran into Andrew and Olivia Laramie the other night at the country club. They were visiting from upstate. It got me to wondering: how _is _that boy?"

_'He's dead, Darcy. I killed him.'_

"He's—he's—dead," she replied bluntly, not understanding herself.

Silence on the other end.

"Oh, my God. Mom—I have to call you back. I'm dizzy. I have to lie down."

"Darce, honey…did you just—"

Darcy hung up, viciously, angrily. Hands tearing at her head, her hair.

The darkness had killed Mike. Hot tears and frozen veins refused to lie to her. He was dead. He'd been poisoned when she saw him, delusional. He'd died there, on the floor of Jonathan's office.

Who had killed him? A wraith. A skeleton. Something terrible and unthinkable. Hands that had grasped her, pushed her down into the floor and made her forget who she was. A voice, worn to the bone and known to her. She had to remember. Nothing was more important.

She didn't sleep that night, fearing her own shadow.

…

Morning found her in a tangled mass of sheets, her lack of sleep grating against the back of her eyes like a file. Nearly crying with the simple, infant frustration of a night without rest, she stood and went to her window.

Everything was so different, but nothing had changed. Cars flashed by in the asphalt shallows as storefronts opened their eyes and the trains rattled along the city's spine. Her ghost gazed out at her from the sunlit glass, hollow and ready to disappear at the slightest provocation. She heaved a sigh and condensation hid her reflection, hooding it like a shroud.

Laramie dead. It was impossible. She remembered him easily enough; surely he lived still, somewhere, with the same effortlessness. That showhorse stride. He always knew he was being watched, and he'd let that knowledge govern him. The spark of greeting in his Mediterranean eyes. Crisp but approachable, professional yet informal. A doctor who insisted he was 'just Mike,' when everything in him aspired, strained to be more.

She cried again, genuinely sorry, even though every feminist sense urged for a righteous apathy. He'd been a tyrant. A ruthless climber. But he didn't deserve death.

She dressed hurriedly, combing back frizzing hair into a ponytail and rubbing the sleep and sadness out from under her eyes. Yesterday didn't matter; Jonathan would know.

…

Darcy had held her position as an intern at Arkham for over three months. Up until the bizarre mishap the week before, she hadn't missed a day of work. September, October, November. The Asylum was still frightening, but no longer a stranger. She'd long since come to know its quirks and perversions, and did not fear them any more than was reasonable.

But she had never seen it in such a state of utter, decapitated turmoil as it was in today, and it was indeed frightening.

She knew something was wrong when police stopped her at the doorway leading into the lobby.

"Hey, I work here."

"Are you a doctor?" One of the cops asked her, frowning down his aquiline nose at her from his intimidating height—easily six feet, she decided.

"N-no. But I'm interning for—"

"It's okay, Ramsey," a familiar basso voice thundered, "I know this girl."

Darcy smiled even before she turned to see Ingram behind her. "Thanks."

He gestured for her to follow, but his face was grim as they entered the Asylum. "Why'd you come to work?" He asked. "Don't you watch the news? Read the _Times_?"

"Not today," she admitted, "I was in a bit of a hurry."

"It's a madhouse in here," he growled.

Darcy almost laughed before she realized it wasn't a joke. She swallowed the offending sound and looked around her.

Things did seem out of control. Wide-eyed doctors were speaking to police officers as other officers ushered clamorous reporters and camera men out of the building. Something small and dark soared out of the lobby and into the morning on webbed wings.

"Holy—" It took her a moment to realize what the little blur was. "Ingram, was that a bat?"

"Didn't see it. Who knows what it is, anyway. We're falling apart at the seams."

Looking at the deserted offices sliding by reminded Darcy of her purpose. "Look, I need to talk to Jon—Dr. Crane. Where is he? It's urgent."

Ingram's eyes were flat and told her nothing. "You don't want to talk to him right now, little girl."

"I need to," she pressed, "It's important, Ingram."

"Nothing is important enough anymore."

"Look, do you know where Laramie is?" She couldn't help the new fierceness in her voice.

"No. No one does," he replied, looking at her with a confused twist to his hard mouth.

"Exactly. I think I know what's going on, Ingram. Let me talk to Dr. Crane."

The enormous man shook his head slowly, but said, "All right. But I'm coming with you. I don't trust people 'round here anymore."

"Thanks," she said sincerely, "Where is he?"

"On the fourth floor—maximum security."

_With a patient in the midst of this chaos?_ That man would cling to his schedule if the world were coming to an end. She felt another smile tug at her mouth and allowed it to emerge. She was going to him.

The elevator climbed slowly upwards, and she was first to exit when they arrived on the fourth story. Her heels clicked in the hallways, the harsh rapport dauntless and unanswered. She was going to him and everything would be right again.

"Here we are," Ingram announced. He knocked on one of the cell doors. "Dr. Crane? Someone to see you."

No response. Ingram paused, key halfway to the door. "You sure you want to do this?"

"Yes," she replied. Things would be better.

Her world fell to pieces when she saw patient, psychiatrist, one and the same, locked inside.

Logic and madness stared out at her from the same pair of limpid blue eyes.

* * *

Author's Note

Thanks to all the lovely reviewers who took the time to separate fork from mouth (I know it's hard!) and leave me a few nice words over the long Thanksgiving weekend. I recently realized this story has suffered a sudden spate of short chapters, so I hope this long one made for a good read. Let me know what you think and, of course, stay tuned for **Chapter 18, in which all shall inevitably be revealed.** Poor Darcy.

The first **10** reviewers will receive a special appreciation from Jonathan Crane himself in next week's note.

I hope those of you who get the _LA Times_ saw the fabulous article on Cillian Murphy in last week's _Calendar _section. And everyone, simply _everyone_, must go catch him in _Breakfast on Pluto_.

Ginger snaps and piping-hot hot chocolate for everyone,

Blodeuedd


	18. She fears him

She fears him, and will always ask

What fated her to choose him;

She meets in his engaging mask

All reasons to refuse him.

-from _Eros Turannos_ by Edwin Arlington Robinson

…

Stricken by a sudden, nauseating vertigo, she blinked and stared dumbly at him in horror. Thousands of questions rose to her mind like a flock of birds, battering themselves against her eyelids, begging to be set free. But the face of the man in the straitjacket was as unreadable as ever. Now, she realized, it was doubly inscrutable, what with the mirror of insanity reflecting all the efforts of her searching gaze.

"Ms. Crandell," he said slowly, as if setting each word out alone, like an offering, into the silence to see how it would be received, "I had a feeling you'd be coming to pay me a visit soon enough. Have a seat; you seem agitated."

Feeling her knees quiver beneath her, she sat heavily in the nearby chair, fingernails digging into her palms. The confusion in her rose to terrifying maturity, and tears of pure, childish bewilderment dripped out from under her downturned lashes, burning bright paths down her face. He watched them fall with a half-fascinated disgust, as if she were bleeding copiously onto a priceless carpet in his house.

"You are fifteen minutes late to work," he said as he watched her cry. A strange, joking lilt turned his words upward, like a smile, but his face was colder than marble.

"Jonathan…who did this to you?" She managed to gasp out, wiping furiously at her cheeks.

Strapped in tightly as he was, he seemed to settle back like a satisfied cat, relishing the opportunity to tell a story. "A bat got in," he replied with the same not-quite irony still haunting his voice, "He didn't much care for how I was conducting things." Whatever his reasons for being locked in a maximum-security cell, he still had enough acuity about himself to notice her stare of disbelief. "Don't look so appalled, Ms. Crandell—didn't I tell you it was just beginning?"

"What do you mean?" She asked, regaining control, though her grip on the suit of armor was tenuous at best.

"There was a police raid last night," Ingram put in, voice like the slow, sad yawing of a cello. She jumped; she'd almost forgotten he was standing by the door. "The Batman was here too. Well, according to some. Crane was at the head of some illegal operation they were carrying out downstairs…we're still trying to put the pieces together."

"Too late," Jonathan cut in, staring with bruised, furious eyes at Ingram, "Too late."

Darcy glanced between the two men, feeling as if she'd been plunged into ice water.

"Is this true?" She asked, not directing the question to either of them.

"Yes," Jonathan answered, almost smugly, "They say I'm crazy now. I'm being treated by Dr. Connolly at the moment. I hired him myself, last summer. Bright-eyed little idealist from Chicago. I think you've met him once or twice in passing."

"Jonathan?" Darcy asked slowly.

"What is it?"

"I'm going to ask you a question." Her voice sounded like a little girl's; she hated herself for it.

"Don't even try," he remarked brusquely, "You're not a certified psychiatrist yet."

"Jonathan…" She clung to the name, as if it would bring him to his senses. She didn't like this new, volatile man sitting before her, speaking with a madman's sobriety and looking inside her. "Is Mike Laramie dead?"

Jonathan's haughty, contained air dissolved, slowly replaced by a quiet, malevolent mien that was even more unnerving.

"I thought you'd never ask," he said in a faint, leisurely voice, "But you're a smart girl. I should have counted on that." When her only response was a frightened silence, he continued. "Yes. He is dead."

She didn't want to ask; she teetered on the edge of a sheer precipice, terrified, sickened, unable to look at the face of the man she'd almost trusted, almost loved.

"Who killed him?"

"You know the answer to that."

Everything seemed to twist and tighten; her eyes were wrung dry but her mind was in a panic, making the connections she'd thought would be left unmade for the rest of her life.

Jonathan Crane had murdered Mike and given her the poison which had almost cost her her mind. Lied to her with a smiling mouth and in the same breath pressed those lips to her. Held her in the dark, pressed against her, as he had in the dark office—now she knew he was _him_ and _him_ was he—but then, in her apartment, he'd said he loved her. Fingers not her own tangled in her hair. The holding, the murmuring, the gentleness, calming the very fear he himself had sown in her mind.

"You—" _Monster _rose to her lips, but she couldn't say it. Memories howled in her head, refusing to be pushed away. "I believed you—I let you in—"

"You shouldn't have been so pliant," he snapped back, smiling bitterly though his eyes sparked with a likeness of her own rage, "You should have_ known_."

"How could I have known? I thought—I thought you would talk to me and understand—"

"I did. _And I did._ Anyone can understand another person, anyone can help. One cannot exorcise his demons alone."

"You lied—you made me feel like—"

"Like what? Tell me: like what? It can't be anything worse than what I felt."

"You're locked in here. You'll never get out. _I hate you_." She wanted to rise and strike him, with all her strength, but something bound her to her chair.

He stopped short, surprised by her vehemence. "Go away, Darcy," he said in an unexpectedly quiet, serious voice, almost warning her, "Leave the city tonight. Don't come back. Leave."

"I'm not afraid of you," she replied, lowering her voice to match his, "I'm not afraid of you anymore. You're never going to leave here. I'll never see you again."

She finally found her feet and stood, turning on her heel, trying not to feel the pump of blood, the raging sorrow.

"_Darcy!_"

She looked back only once as she left, caught a glimpse of him over Ingram's shoulder. Every lineament of his bound form strained toward her, eyes bright but blank and bare of hope.

"The night will come, and I'll find you, Darcy—I'll find—"

The cell door slammed, sealing him off. She stumbled to the opposite wall and felt herself collapse in one graceless, leaden motion, vision swimming in and out of focus.

She didn't cry again, thought. Too much energy had been wasted for her to cry anymore; she was hollowed out now, and dry as bone. She simply coughed and retched and groaned, thinking of everything with a blindness that was animal and frenzied.

"Valencia? Who's with you?"

She looked up just in time to catch the flash of a badge as a wiry man looked down at her in concern.

"James Gordon. I'm with the GCPD."

She nodded without understanding, unable to find her voice.

"She's Darcy Crandell," she heard Ingram say as if from underwater, "She was interning for Crane."

"Is that so? Nice to meet you." That cursory greeting complete, he turned to Ingram, glasses flashing in the sun. "Could you do me a favor and keep her around? I'd love to ask her a few questions."

"Gordon!" A voice from up the hall.

"Be right there, Andy! –Look, just hang out here for a bit. Lemme go see what he wants." He was gone. Everything was so fast, so loud.

"Get up," Ingram murmured to her as the lean officer rounded the corner and disappeared, "Go home and get some sleep."

"But he—"

"I'll cover for you. I know you didn't know about this whole thing. I'll tell him that. Just try and forget it all. You're too good a person to get caught up in it; I always knew you were."

She still didn't move; a massive hand closed about hers and hauled her upwards with a surprising gentleness.

"Ingram—"

"Don't. Just go. If you're still thinking about this tomorrow, give Dr. Connolly a call. You have the Asylum directory at home. He'll help you out and talk you through it; he's a good kid."

"I—I will."

"Go," he repeated quietly, "I wasn't kidding."

"Ingram…thanks." She hugged him, weakly, trying not to think too far ahead.

A faint smile split his stony, weathered face as he looked down at her, but he waved her off.

"Go on; I told you to leave, little girl."

She turned, walked, then ran, every step lifting her higher, taking her farther. The lobby door closed behind her, and she could have sworn she saw Gordon's face, looking at her bewildered, through the glass.

Her car took her even farther. The streets grew prosperous, silver. She counted the blocks under breath, starting over each time her voice began to shake or snag. A passing woman's jewel-blue sweater reminded her of eyes, his eyes, and she had to pull over and stop. He was behind her. Over a bridge, locked in a cell, strapped to a chair. He'd never find her.

She would block him out, she realized as she passed the Clocktower. In her mind, she saw him walking backwards, out of her life, back across the Asylum courtyard, as if in rewind. The crows paused mid-wing and settled on the sidewalk once more, muttering to themselves as if he'd never disturbed them, as if he'd never been born.

_Dr. Crane?_ She asked the void inside herself. _I quit._

* * *

Doctor's Note

Dear Readers,

This is Dr. Jonathan Crane, writing in lieu of my bizarre hostess to you on this fine evening. Before I continue, I must simply let you know that Ms. Darcy Crandell is of course very, very wrong. I am not gone from her life. That is an absolutely silly and implausible belief to hold.

Continuing on, I wish to extend my heartfelt congratulations to **Melismata Maiden, Magdalena Iris Roth, Jonathansgirl18, Firefly4000, Dai Katana, SpadesJade, Trickster Priestess, Jacinta Kenobi, Tigger-180, and Midnight Scribbler** for being the first ten reviewers to contact my eccentric authoress. To reward you for your thoughtfulness and enthusiasm, you each are going to receive a free guest pass to visit Arkham Asylum whenever you wish. Do drop by my cell; it would be a pleasure to meet you.

Oh, and please **stay tuned for the penultimate chapter **in this twisted and, I assure you, altogether factually mangled tale.

Regards,

Dr. Jonathan Crane


	19. Lost shadows on the floor

When the night's coming and the last light falls

A weak child among lost shadows on the floor.

-from _The Ancestors_ by Allen Tate

…

"Mother?"

A single word, needy, ancient.

She was there, in a narrow, dusty kitchen. The door squeaked behind him, a needling cry that was soon cut off. The wallpaper peeled, flaked, faded in the setting sun. Eleanor Crane. There, working quietly at the sink, her lank hair pulled up and off the white bones of her neck, her head bent in concentration. It was the desperate concentration of someone who didn't dare to look anywhere else, and so focused the mind fiercely on one mundane point. She took the dirty dishes and washed them in silence, then placed them on the opposite side of the sink, glistening.

The omnipresent little radio was silent as its mistress, and out-of-place in the quiet it pursued so industriously. The folds of his mother's worn dress were no longer crisp or bright; like her, they sagged and dwindled into nothing about her thin white legs.

He crawled to her as he always had, wounded, bewildered, a pilgrim seeking comfort that never came. This time, there was no external injury to dress or heal. This time, he was bleeding inside, in a place beyond flesh and nerve.

"Mother."

No response from the lean figure black in the late afternoon light. No answer from the weary elbows working rhythmically at scouring a place. No reply from the gatherings of veins faintly seen at the backs of her knees.

He sat quietly at the table, realizing the hallucination of it all. The tiles of the floor gleamed through their thin patina of grime, like hundreds of tiny faces watching him, waiting for his next action.

"I broke her heart, Mother."

The woman didn't move to help him. The dish gleamed like bone in her hands, the cadenced sound of the sponge a whisper that set his teeth on edge.

Nothing would move her. Nothing could change a memory, or make it less than it was.

"I broke her heart," he repeated to himself, and the microcosm shattered.

He was back in his cell, straitjacketed, alone, trapped.

Oh yes, and insane. He'd known he would go insane the instant his lungs had filled with that first shocked surge of toxin-polluted air. The Batman was no scientist; he'd overdosed his subject without hesitation and only Jonathan could know the results. The Batman had gone and ruined everything in one careless sweep of his black wings.

But the look in her eyes when she'd entered—! The pale lattice of horror which had meshed her face and then collapsed at the merest touch to anger, and tears. He smiled, allowing the self-loathing to fill him. Despite the failure of all else, he'd successfully managed to push _her_ away to safety. The trappings of emotion had fallen, he was free once more. Here, he would recover. There would be only calm and containment and—

_Fear?_

He had never recoiled from himself so violently before. Had never known what it was like to sense the struggling of every cell in him, the fight to escape from his own softened, distorted reflection.

Where was the diversion of a memory when he needed one? The kitchen and his mother were long gone, swallowed up in the beating of his frantic, drugged heart. Other thoughts came to mind but soon passed away, with the short-lived intrigue of poorly-taken photographs. He was left with only a painful, bitter _now_ that refused to warp into his latest moment of delirium.

No. It was all too real, all too real and horrid. He, Jonathan Crane, was afraid.

"Don't you remember her," he asked himself, the words cutting into him with the double poignancy of a blade and mirror. "Remember Amy?"

Weak and soft, a pale ghost in oversized cardigans and dresses that had seen their best days long before she'd owned them. The holes in the sleeves that she'd sought to hide just as assiduously as the bruises and cuts. A gentle voice that he couldn't recall with any clarity; a ragged smile made lovelier by despair.

_Don't be afraid._

But he was. He had tried to block out the fear by refining his intellect, by keeping his feelings subdued in a stagnant childhood, but he could feel the weed of the emotion taking root inside him, violent sickness and debilitating weakness all in wretched one.

He didn't fear insanity. He knew better. He'd been a student of insanity for years, even before he'd left for the university. He knew it and could not fear it. By the time the true madness smothered him, the madness born of bleak imprisonment and the toxin snaking through his failing system, he wouldn't know the difference. The blindness of unthought would take him, and he anticipated the forgetting and the easiness with an almost-excitement.

He didn't fear humiliation. The courts would hound him and the newspapers would blacken his name. The case of _People v. Crane_ would begin, with him a ragged, keening skeleton in the defendant's chair, watching with vapid, watery eyes as lawyers took his name and twisted it in florid speeches. The flashes of cameras, the shouts of reporters, the strong grip of policemen leading him back and forth each day, from asylum to courthouse, forsaking one cage for another. A strange, cruel fame, without respect or compassion. But nothing would compare to being shoved against the hard tile wall of the boys' bathroom and being beaten until his mind separated from his body with all the effort it took to turn the page of a book.

He didn't fear defeat. The League of Shadows would worm him out somehow, even though he was beginning to prefer the solitude and isolation of his cell to the clamor of the world outside. But prefer as he might, revenge was becoming less of a choice. It was now merely fate and, insane or not, he would be drawn into it without any hope of escape.

He feared none of those things. But he couldn't stop himself from fearing the slight dark woman who had entered his room with her heart in her eyes. He did not fear her directly—it was more what she implied, what she meant, what she evoked. He feared losing her, feared repelling her, feared wounding her, feared saddening her—feared loving her.

He'd loved her on that Friday, during the walk in Robinson Park. He wished he had his scarf here, so he could remember it more fully. He'd felt almost normal then, passing under the leaves and sullen sky as if nothing would change. He remembered kissing her, feeling divided. It was interesting to realize—he knew his own malevolence, but she did not, and so he'd half-wished she would tear away and run, and stay pure of him forever. But at the same time the darkness would wish she wasn't noble enough to know what she embraced. He'd loved her then, but the fear for her had been there for months before.

Amy had been his excuse, his forlorn, sorry excuse for the softening he felt inside when he saw her. There was yet another of his crimes, one of the many that no court would have the insight to bring up, the shameless using of a guardian angel as a shield for his sniveling affections. He had nurtured Amy's memory for years with a quiet veneration, for she had been the one to instill in him the wisdom of a life lived without passion or fear, only to vandalize it now to justify his self-contradiction.

It had to end here. A decision had to be reached.

Darcy was gone now. She had fled him, as she should have. But he could not let the memories of two plague him forever. There was disorder in his life where there had been none ever before, things he could not rearrange inside this straitjacket. There could be no closure with her living free as a symbol of his vacillation.

Growing up as a child in a household without rhyme or reason, he desired and deserved control now. Symmetry above all else. He wanted to cage her for her safety, keep her near him. He would lay Amy to rest and he would forget. He would go mad gladly, knowing all was in order.

The door swung open, bringing his head up with a jerk. Delusion or reality? The two were the same at this point; he could merely entertain either with solemnity and hope for the best.

Shadows entered his cell, mumbling low to each other and approaching him on fast feet. His mask fell from above into his lap. It no longer grinned—its stitched mouth was stretched wide into a grimace, burning with powerless anger and urgency. The eyes were mere slits, unblinking and ruthless like the eyes of a snake.

Hands tugged at his straitjacket, loosening the arms, bringing relief to his aching muscles. He raised his hands in their too-long sleeves, ran his fingers through his hair and over his face. Painful sensation returned to deadened features and limbs.

_I'm here. I'm real. I'm alive._

"Time to play," said a voice from overhead.

_And I am Scarecrow. _

He looked up into the white-hot intensity, clutching his mask with shaking hands, and as he stood shakily to his feet, he knew what he must do.

* * *

Author's Note

Apologies to my readers for both my delay in posting and my unusual silence in response to their reviews. Both can be attributed to a particularly wicked bout of the influenza, which rendered me bed-ridden and helpless for nearly the entirety of last week. I think my illness is also partially to blame for the unapologetic, disjointed schizophrenia of this chapter, but, since Jonathan _is_ becoming a character of increasing mental instability, it lends itself well.

The **next and final chapter, in which Darcy pays a visit to one doctor and is herself visited by yet another doctor,** will be posted next week on Friday, December 23. I can't believe the end is approaching so quickly. Since I want to keep the tone of Chapter 20 unmarred by a perky Author's Note at the end, I will give my thanks and acknowledgements now.

(deep breath) I began this 'lovesick homage to Dr. Jonathan Crane à la Cillian Murphy' many weeks ago, hoping only for the best in a genre populated by many skilled authors who had already showered the region with their excellent stories featuring the selfsame villain. To my humbled surprise, _Dark My Light_ was met and has continued to be met with only enthusiasm, kindness, and gentle advice. It has become one of the most successful—nay, _the_ most successful—story I have ever written, with nearly 300 reviews and over 3000 hits. I owe it all to you readers and fellow writers. I consider each and every one of you a friend who deserves my complete respect and eternal gratitude. You know who you are. Thank _you_. Thank you so, so much.

Love always,

Blodeuedd


	20. Dark my light

In a dark time, the eye begins to see,

I meet my shadow in the deepening shade;

I hear my echo in the echoing wood—

A lord of nature weeping to a tree.

I live between the heron and the wren,

Beasts of the hill and serpents of the den.

What's madness but nobility of soul

At odds with circumstance? The day's on fire!

I know the purity of pure despair,

My shadow pinned against a sweating wall.

That place among the rocks—is it a cave,

Or winding path? The edge is what I have.

A steady storm of correspondences!

A night flowing with birds, a ragged moon,

And in broad day the midnight come again!

A man goes far to find out what he is—

Death of the self in a long, tearless night,

All shapes blazing unnatural light.

Dark, dark my light, and darker my desire.

My soul, like some heat-maddened summer fly,

Keeps buzzing at the sill. Which I is_ I?_

A fallen man, I climb out of my fear.

The mind enters itself, and God the mind,

And one is One, free in the tearing wind.

-_In a Dark Time_ by Theodore Roethke

…

"How are you feeling?"

She gnawed her lip and looked at her hands, fallen open and flat in her lap. "Things are going pretty well. I don't know."

Dr. Connolly smiled gently, pencil twitching across his notepad. "We can come back to that, if you'd like."

"No…" She cocked her head to one side, letting the word fall before speaking again. "I always get so ridiculous, thinking about it all. You know, it's been half a year and I really should—"

"Don't tell yourself that," he interrupted insistently, "Only you can set the timeline for recovery. And you _did _go through a lot of trauma back in December. It's better that you feel something rather than nothing at all, Darcy. So, on to the next question. How are you doing with the dark nowadays?"

She stared at the books shelved to the left of where he sat, then forced a little laugh. "Still the same. I did what you said, turning some lights off in my apartment at night and going through that process, but I couldn't get past having less than two on. Just the shadows and…" Trailing off, she could only gesture vaguely with her fingers.

"That's fine. That's just fine for now." A pause so quiet that she could hear the cars outside. "Is work being good to you?"

"If accounting can ever be good—yes. It pays the rent." She put a hand to her temple, musing. "You know, I thought about it after last session; I don't think I'm ever going to med school. I just can't go into psychiatry. I've dragged my heels about it enough; it's time I admitted it."

"Well, don't let it go entirely. I think you have much more potential than you let yourself think you have. If you ever do decide to go back to psychiatry, I'll put in a good word for you at my old firm up in Bristol."

"It's nothing personal," she said quietly, eyes on the carpet between their chairs, "But I don't let people make recommendations for me anymore."

He nodded slowly, pencil hesitating for a moment. "Makes sense, considering what you've been through."

"Exactly. Thank you, though."

He set his work aside and sat up, waking the lustrous red Irish Setter who had been sleeping at his feet. "I'm going to go make myself some tea. Want a cup?"

"No thanks. I can't get too sleepy before I go home."

He left the room, the leggy dog following after him, and Darcy listened to the comforting sounds of him working in the kitchen. A flicker of motion outside the wide, dark window made her glance over with a sudden unease, but her searching gaze saw only the dancing bluish-gold hues of a warm spring evening.

"Have you been thinking about it a lot?" Dr. Connolly asked from the kitchen as he poured the hot water into a cup, "The Asylum breakout and that disaster in the Narrows?"

"You know," she replied, smiling as the setter padded over and waited, tail wagging, for her to scratch him behind the ears, "At first, I thought about it night and day. About Crane being caught and then breaking out again, and then being caught and breaking out again. Every time I heard about him in the news, I wouldn't want to leave the house. But now…it's been a while, and I really have forgotten about it. Obviously, he's not out to get me. He would have come for me sooner if he was."

"Good. I was worried that this latest escape would have you nervous, but you seem to accept that it's fine. He'll be out for a couple of days, but they'll find him in no time. Just like usual."

"Just like usual," she repeated lightly as he entered the room with his mug of tea in hand. He seated himself across from her and resumed his work, taking sips from the steaming earthenware cup occasionally.

"How have your parents been?" He asked, looking up from his writing with a wry grin.

"Mom is still her usual self. She was hysterical when she heard about the Asylum break and the toxin in the water supply. That was all right after I told her Laramie was dead. She was asking me to move in again right up until New Year's. I think my dad's been doing a great job of calming her down, though. Now she's obsessed with the Batman. Says he's the savior of Gotham." She shook her head and shrugged, fighting back a smile. "Well, if it keeps her mind off of what I've been through…"

"And you've been sleeping normally? Eating well?"

"Of course, Doctor." The two of them laughed at the title and the dutiful voice in which she said it.

"Well," he said, voice still warm with mirth, "I think you're doing great. I know you wanted to leave a little early tonight because you had to do some grocery shopping, so I'll just add the fifteen minutes to next week's appointment."

"Sounds good." She stood and buttoned up her jacket, picking up her purse from where it lay on the nearby table. "Thanks so much, Drake. You've been so helpful."

"No problem. See you later." He tried to stand to see her off, but she waved away the formality.

"God, sit _down_, you! Until next week."

Her eyes were clear and bright as she glanced over her shoulder at him, capturing the image of him seated with the dog at his feet in his well-furnished living room before she shut the door and walked to her car. The warmth and safety of the picture left her the instant his house disappeared around the corner.

…

Something about the moon frightened her now. The sallow light; the pocked, staring face; the way it hovered like a ghost in the leafy trees. Something made her blood slow and her skin feel light. The menace was faint, barely palpable, but always there, trailing a finger along her throat.

Tonight the air was warm and the city was alive, but in a sluggish, satisfied way. The cars were slow and the clouds slide like ships across the windswept indigo sky.

She felt the full moon's gaze follow her home from the grocery store, unblinking and leisurely as the metropolis over which it held sway. Shivering despite the night's tepid heat, she hurried to her apartment building, weighed down with two bags of food.

The doorman stopped her at the lobby entrance, shaking his head.

"Elevator's closed again tonight. We're trying to fix the generator for the higher stories so it doesn't break down again in the winter, and the power will be on and off all night in the entire building until we get the parts from New Jersey. Can't afford to have anyone getting stuck till then"

She smiled and thanked him, but muttered a curse as she headed towards the stairs, hoping to find some familiar face on the way up to help her along in case the lights failed.

There was no such luck; none of the other residents seemed to be similarly stranded to make the climb with her. Once during her climb, a noise came from behind her, below her. She couldn't hear it well; it could have been anything. A footstep, a whisper, a scrape, a groan. She blinked but only climbed faster, her face odd and eerie as a painting in the glaring, greenish light.

The hallway was silent but still lit when she walked towards her apartment. She reached her door hurriedly, uneasy with the shaky blessing of electricity all about her, eager to get inside. She fumbled for her keys and found them. Their jangle seemed loud and irreverent in the still of a spring night as she struggled to hold her bags aloft and open the door at the same time.

She flicked a switch and the apartment was filled with gold and safety. Leaving the door ajar as she hurried to drop her heavy bags on the kitchen counter, she ran a hand through her messy dark hair and rubbed her eyes.

It had been rough for a psych student to find and hold a non-psych job, especially one involving numbers, but she'd managed to do well accounting for Wayne Enterprises. Her education was worthless and she knew little of business, but she felt safe. Therapy was going well and she liked and trusted Drake Connolly as much as she could like and trust a psychiatrist these days. She'd almost forgotten the Asylum, Mike, —_him_. She was alive.

The phone rang and she looked up sharply, then hurried to answer. It was probably her mother, calling to check in, or Sheila calling to recount the latest gossip. She picked up the receiver and—

Darkness.

Her eyes struggled to adjust, but the black seemed impenetrable. The line was dead—not a single sound came to her straining ears.

A blackout, she realized with unusual calm. She should have seen it coming.

Even as she realized this, the pound of her blood in her ears subsided, allowing her to hear the distant sounds of traffic, of people in the streets, the wailing of a lonely cat somewhere—

A knock at the door.

She froze like a deer in the headlights, heart suspended by a slender filament over the gaping chasm where her insides should have been. Frantically, she wondered whether to scream for help or stay quiet and lost in the night.

She hadn't closed the door. _Idiot_. Her scalp and spine prickled until they ached. Maybe it was just the concierge, checking around to make sure all was well. She opened her mouth to call a greeting but stopped herself in a rush of panic. She would just stay still. It was blacker than pitch—no one could see her. Maybe whoever it was would go away.

Another knock, carefully measured, then the door slid shut. There. They had gone, and even closed the door for her. The loudness of her breathing filled the quiet, relieved and at ease. Candles; she'd find a few and this would be a cozy little nook, not a lightless prison.

She moved to get the candlesticks and matches from their drawer in the kitchen and heard a footfall echo her own. The traitorous sound was hastily stifled, but undeniable. She became motionless again, her heartbeat becoming an audible, maddened tattoo, each throb a shriek of terror. Her eyes were pinioned open by sheer fear but she could see nothing.

The world was suddenly cold, unreal, petrified. Only the warmth of soft breath by her ear as a voice, so familiar that it seemed almost a figment of her imagination, murmured from behind, "I never break my promises, Ms. Crandell."

_Crane._ She did scream then, with all her might, all of her consciousness becoming that one terrified, despairing sound. A hand flew over her mouth, firm but uncannily gentle, cold fingers pressing the cry into a muffled nothing. She was powerless, immobilized by raw horror, trembling against him as his voice murmured quiet, somber placations, a stream of words that only deprived her further of hope.

"Not so loud, Darcy. You'll wake the entire building. Hush. I thought I'd never see you again. I thought you would have left the city. But you stayed. Aren't you happy to see me?"

She could only shudder, unable to speak or run.

"Quiet. I have only a short amount of time, Darcy. Make it worth my while. You've changed…" Holding his hand adamantly against her mouth, his free hand rose to touch her hair in the darkness where it fell in choppy strands against the side of her face. "You cut your hair. Your beautiful, long hair."

She tried to twist away—remembering as she did so how she had decided to cut it, to cut away the memory of his hands tangled inside the dark tresses—but he held her fiercely, stronger than she'd ever remembered.

"But that is nothing," he sighed, continuing the unfamiliar, uncharacteristic monologue, "It doesn't matter. Don't be so distressed. It's not what I've come here for."

She finally found her voice, struggling away from his silencing hand. "You're not real," she insisted in a fierce whisper, "I forgot you. I made myself forget."

His hands let go of her with an almost violent fury and she stumbled forward, shaking with suppressed sobs; she heard him walk around to face her in the darkness, she could see the dimmest outline of his shadow only inches away from her. He was finally quiet, processing her words with his usual, machine-like precision. "Then I'll just have to make you remember, won't I?"

Before she could even consider escape, his mouth closed over hers, his kiss long and fierce as if he would consume her. For her, the embrace held no passion, no affection, no softness—only fear. She could not struggle but merely held still as if transfixed, letting him.

After what seemed like a quivering hour, he released her, fading away into hover in the dark. When she said nothing he began to speak again, voice solemn with that eerie semblance of sanity.

"I'm here for a reason, Darcy. I've thought for a long time about what should be done, what needed to be done. My stays in the Asylum have allowed me to think, think more clearly than I have in a long while.

"I've made my best effort to live my life without fear. For the most part, I have succeeded. But when I met you, I realized—you cause me fear, Darcy. Because of my feelings for you, I felt fear, for the first time since my childhood. But natural as fear may be for the weak and vulnerable among us, I cannot let it enter me. Not even for you. Which is why I've come."

She took a timid step back, trying to recover her own senses. Maybe the power would come back. She'd call the police and they'd take him away. Maybe— She stopped, realizing she was just making excuses, trying to set aside the immediate circumstances. She had to face him now, whatever would happen later.

"Darcy, I can't have you continue to exist as my mistake. I simply couldn't allow myself to not put this issue to rest. You know how much I enjoy a sense of closure." He paused, listening hungrily to the sound of her terrified panting. "Don't be so theatrical. I'm not going to give you the toxin again. I considered it—considered making you crazy like me—but I couldn't bring myself to do such a thing. I've brought you something else instead, something to help you sleep in the dark."

She tried to draw back, but he advanced to quickly, finding her hand in the gloom and leading her gently into the bedroom. She followed, unresisting, as if finally realizing the utter bleakness of her situation.

"It won't hurt," he promised, "I asked them if it would hurt. It would kill me too, to see you in pain now. I just need you to stand still."

She listened with dull-eyed despair, not knowing what would come but no longer caring. Somehow, she knew it was ending. Outside, everything seemed to become static and perfect.

The moon shone like a whitish phantom through the blinds, its pale light finding the long, thin gleam of a needle as it sank into the soft curve of her elbow. He injected the fluid carefully into her veins, as if it were a gift.

"Jonathan—" she began at last in a sleepy protest, endearment and plea in one. Her hand fumbled blindly, numbly, for his, and found it in the dark. Her vision was becoming distorted and hazy; there was no way of telling light from dark, friend from foe. Just twilight and dreaming and his voice.

"I needed you to be safe. Somewhere where I can always find you. You don't need to be afraid anymore, Darcy—good night."

…

He held her wilting form, light as a bird's, against him, listening for the last catch of her breath, feeling for the final thud of her pulse. Both came within seconds; he heaved a sigh of release and laid her on her bed, eased his hand free of her brittle grip, her face like a circle of light in the overwhelming dark. He pressed a kiss to her forehead, waiting for the door inside him to close.

Minutes passed and it didn't close. Minutes passed and he realized what he had done.

He had killed her.

He hadn't cried since the endless, stretching days after Amy's death. He'd almost forgotten what it felt like to be brought low by grief. Now, the tears of long, lonely years visited upon him with a cruel intensity, until he cradled his aching head in his hands and wished to die too.

It had been a mistake. He had thought it was the only choice, the best choice. Such an easy act, to render her his. Locked in his cell, he had needed to kill her, ached to kill her, wanted her inert and safe.

But now he realized that killing her had only magnified his vulnerability and allowed it to flourish. Now, not only did he have a heart again, but it seethed, caged and animal, with the passion of so many days lost in coldness.

He cried until there was nothing left in him, until only hollow, dry moans racked his bent form. The bedroom was soaked in his tears and the silence that followed. He curled up on the floor by her bed, where her still, lifeless form lay, and closed his eyes, disappearing into the dark like an unwanted memory.

When he opened his eyes again, reason returned reluctantly, as if ashamed to be seen in the place of his outburst.

He needed to leave. They would find her, know it was him, chase him to the ground. Leaving

immediately was all he could do to hope to survive and elude capture. He stood roughly and tried to leave the room without looking at her, but he had to stop and turn back.

She lay where he had left her, one arm lying against the curve of her hip, palm facing downward, the limp pressure of cold fingers creating soft hollows in the blanket beneath her. The other hand lay by her forehead, upturned, supplicating and begging not to be forgotten. He watched her with no emotion but despair, a sad familiarity with something that would never return.

"Goodbye," he said without really realizing he'd said it, until the word emerged, numb and childlike and lost. "Goodbye."

He made his way from the apartment in darkness, exiting so quietly that those who heard him thought he was only a creak of the old structure or the shifting of tenants overhead. A side door led him outward into the lukewarm night, into a grimy alley forsaken by moonlight. The rush of traffic, the chatter of people, the whispering wind—the city's laughter—filled his ears as his mind struggled to adjust to the glaring black-and-white world he'd entered.

It was there, in the stark void, he realized everything was gone. He was an outsider again, hating his self-imposed exile and hating himself; an insane, twisted scarecrow whose toxin-addled mind would forget all of this by tomorrow. Anger and regret filled him, but neither could revive the dead. They would only drive him further down the treacherous way he already walked.

He knew he would continue to wage war on society and the city he hated merely because he had nothing left to hold on to or remember. No one to make him turn away from the precipice. No one to question his impending leap and the darkness he'd thought to be his fate. As she had.

Without Darcy, there was nothing left to do now but disappear.

Disappearing had always been easy.

The End

* * *

_For Emily, best of editors and best of friends. _


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